Tacitus
by Chalybeous
Summary: I told myself I would never be brave enough to post one of my (far too many) Ezio stories, but since the Ezio Trilogy has been released for the PS4… Okay, so, you remember in the beginning of Brotherhood, after the fall of Monteriggioni, when Ezio passes out on the road to Roma, only to wake up in some strange woman's home? This is her story (or, if you will, my story for her).
1. Beginnings (Part I)

**Chapter One: Beginnings (Part I)**

Roma: 1500

The storm outside had finally passed, the winds long since blown out, the freezing rain lessening to a lingering dribble. The two occupants of the cozy home were currently unconcerned with the weather, however, thanks in part to the coals glowing warmly in the brazier.

The woman fussed about the room, her hands adjusting drapes that didn't need closing, stoking coals that were already fully roasting, pulling the bedclothes up and over the shoulders of the unconscious man. She paused a moment, staring down at his dark and brooding features, finding herself wondering—yet again—what it was that drove this mysterious man so relentlessly.

She had been tending to his wounds for more than a full day now, hardly daring to take a moment to eat or nap lest his injuries should worsen. She had seen wounds similar to these before—it seemed like a lifetime ago—and knew they were very serious. Most likely the man would die, he probably should have died already, yet something was keeping him alive, some inner driving force, some unyielding fate…

She yawned, caught herself, and covered her mouth with the back of her hand. Va bene, if the man was going to die, he would die; there really wasn't much more she could do for him, other than sit next to him and offer him comfort if the time came, so he wouldn't have to die alone. She, however, was still alive, and would be alive tomorrow, and was in need of something to keep herself awake until then. And fed, she added ruefully, hearing the soft growl of her stomach.

She leaned back from the bed, gave the mysterious man one last perusal, and left for the other room.

No sooner had she started to fill a bowl with stew, than she heard a sound coming from the bed. She sighed, mentally shaking her head, figuring that of course the man would awaken as soon as her back was turned—she should have left him alone hours ago! With a measured, patient pace, she set the bowl back down and returned the ladle to the stew pot. Then, her hands clasped in front of her, she calmly re-entered the bedchamber. Either he was growing better, or growing worse, racing up to him would not change matters.

She craned her head around the partially opened door to see which option had come about. In the next moment, she fought back the smile that tugged at the corner of her mouth; of course he was growing better. She finished entering the room and reached the bedside just has his hand knocked over the bottle of her special elixir sitting on top of a bedside table. She caught the bottle, placed it safely out of harm's way, and sat down on the edge of the bed. Next she grabbed his wrists, no mean feat considering how wildly he was flailing his arms, and spoke gently to him.

"Rest, Messer; you have been injured, but you will be well soon."

"No…!" The man beneath her hands struggled, against both her and the grips of unconsciousness. He was not quite awake, yet was already fighting to raise himself up onto his elbows. His voice was hoarse and croaking from his weakened state, but underneath it all was that steel that had kept him alive against the odds.

Yet he was weak, and injured, and she had no problem holding him down onto the bed. "Relax, Messer, do not fight it. You will awaken. Give it a moment." Seeing the way he struggled to wake up, she second-guessed her motives behind giving him the elixir earlier that day. But she knew the best thing for him was rest, a deep rest without troublesome dreams or nightmares.

Apparently, however, her patient did not agree with her.

"I must… I must…" he mumbled, his eyes fluttering, his mouth working hard to form the words, to infuse life into the sounds as if it would infuse life into his body, "…must get… Roma…"

"You are here, Messer," she tried to assure him, not exactly positive he could hear her, much less understand her, but she had to make the effort. He was waking, that much was obvious, but if he didn't stop moving around so much, he was going to reopen his wounds.

"I… I must get to Roma," he continued to press, at long last fully opening his eyes. "I must fix this!" He nearly managed to sit up, despite her hands holding his arms to his sides, and came face to face with her, so close they almost bumped heads.

He stopped ranting when he realized he was staring at the face of another person. He blinked, his golden amber orbs disappearing momentarily behind dark lashes, and when he looked at her again, she had the strangest impression that he was somehow looking through her. She gave a little shudder against the sensation, as if the icy drizzle outside was dribbling down her spine. Then he gave a little moan and blinked again, falling back against the mattress, exhausted after such a brief struggle, and breaking their eye contact.

No longer captivated by those enigmatic eyes, she realized she had been holding her breath, Giving herself a small shake for her silly reaction—of course a man couldn't look at a person and see into their soul and know what was in their heart—she inhaled a few times, slow and steady, to calm herself before returning her focus to her patient. Looking at him once more she saw his eyes were normal, as she had expected they would be; though a little glassy, he had no trouble focusing on her face or following her movements as she ran her fingers through his dark brown hair, checking the bump on the side of his head. Noting that the swelling was greatly reduced, she pulled free of the thick locks to touch the back of her fingers to his forehead.

"…scusa, but… where…?" There were other words before, between, and after those, but he hardly had the voice for them.

She paused a moment when she heard him speak, smiled reassuringly at him, and answered his question, or what she supposed his question to be. "You are in Roma, Messer." She watched him critically as his brows furrowed, his sluggish mind working through what she had said. Satisfied she had satisfied his question, she moved her fingers to his stubbled cheek, just above his short beard. Since his arrival, he had been battling a high fever, but his skin was cooler now. She tilted her head, nodded a little, and hummed to herself, concluding that his fever had broken.

"Who… are you…?" This time he had taken the effort to form only those words that were necessary, speaking slower but far more clearly.

Her focus was now on the bedclothes. They had gotten bunched and twisted due to his earlier thrashing, and she was straightening them as she answered, somewhat absent-mindedly, "Margherita."

"Madonna Margherita," he repeated, his voice wearing as thin as his patience. "How did I… get here?"

That got her attention. She blinked at him, wondering if the bump on his head had affected his memory. He tried to sit up, but her hands on his upper arms kept him lying down. He gave up trying to fight her, and instead tried to wet his lips, dusting them with an even drier tongue. She took the hint, let go of his arms, though keeping a stern look on him to make sure he stayed put, and reached for a nearby cup of water.

When she turned back towards him, she leaned forward and ran one of her hands behind his head, helping to support it as he raised his head to drink. "Your friend, Messer," she answered, carefully tipping the contents into his mouth, slowly and in a measured pace, allowing him to swallow between each sip. "He brought you here the other night."

Never had water tasted sweeter than any wine, headier than any grappa, as if it were the very nectar of the gods. He could feel it soaking into his tongue, easing the desert of his throat, spreading out from his stomach to breathe life into his limbs. But life was returning to his mind as well, though for a moment he doubted it because her words did not make any sense. "What friend?" he pressed, remembering that he had sent his mother and sister to Firenze, that he had brought no one with him on that lonely road. "Surely, you cannot mean my horse."

Margherita seemed taken aback, tilting her head again, not sure if he was trying to be charming and teasing her, or if he honestly thought his horse had brought him to her doorstep and negotiated for his care. "Your friend. The man you were with. You don't remember him?" As soon as she asked the question, she knew the answer, his confusion written plainly on his face. She leaned forward, peering into his eyes as she asked, "Tell me, can you remember what happened to you?"

"I remember," he answered, holding her gaze steadily. "But I was alone when I rode for Roma. Who brought me here? And where is this place?" He tried once more to push himself into a sitting position. He was feeling stronger, or so he told himself. He had to be feeling stronger. There was too much to do, to much he had to do…

She placed her hands carefully, one on his right shoulder and the other on his upper left arm, mindful of the wound in his left shoulder, easily forcing him back onto the mattress. When it looked like he would continue to defy her, she offered an explanation, hoping that would persuade him. "Please, Messer, lie still. If you move too far too quickly, you will reopen your wounds. Then all the hard work I have done—cleaning them and stitching them closed—will have been for nothing. Already you have caused yourself harm, see?" She tsked at him, pulling the covers down far enough to reveal the bandages wound across his abdomen. The dressing was no longer clean, but had a red stain slowly growing across it on his right side.

He saw the injury but it hardly registered. "Will you answer my questions?" His tone grew harsher from his frustration and his confusion and his weakness. He was being defeated by a young woman! A girl! A…

She leaned across him and started loosening the bandage before she replied, "If you lie still, si, I will answer all the questions that I can." Her attention was more on his wounds than his eyes. If she had looked up, she would have found the bright amber orbs looking closely at her again, with that same unearthly look from before, as if they could see into her very soul.

He stared at her a moment longer, then made a conscious effort to relax onto the bed. Despite her being a stranger to him, despite having no idea how he had gotten there, he knew she was someone he could trust, thanks to that… rare… gift of his. "Va bene, Dottore Margherita," he gently teased. Charming women was second nature to him, after all; yet when he saw the blush on her cheeks at the title he had given her, he immediately felt remorse. He decided to try a different tactic. "Scusa, Madonna, but we seem to have gotten off to a bad start. Perhaps if we began again? Allow me to introduce myself. I am Ezio Auditore da Firenze."

She did not look up from her work, removing the stained bit of folded linen cloth before pressing a fresh poultice over the long furrow in his side. "Salute, Messer Auditore. I am Margherita Campi." She tightened the bandage around his waist and leaned back to check the wound in his shoulder.

"You said we are in Roma?"

"Si," she nodded, her slight fingers pressing gently against the reddened and tender flesh around the injury. Yet she seemed satisfied with what she saw, replacing that dressing without changing it. "Specifically the Campagna District," she looked up as she finished tying the linen strips to see the confusion on his face. "We are on the northeast edge of Roma, facing the countryside."

"How long have I been here?"

She dropped her eyes away, suddenly conscious of the heat that simmered behind his fiery pupils. She busied herself with gathering up the soiled wrappings as she answered, "You and your friend arrived last night, during the storm. You were very sick with a fever, and weakened from your wounds."

"Can you tell me who brought me here, or at least what has happened since I've been in your care?"

She had turned away to set the soiled linens aside to be washed later, and used to time to gain mastery over herself once more. Feeling brave enough to face his gaze, she turned back towards him. "Si, I will, but I think I have answered enough of your questions; now you must answer a few of mine. Tell me, truthfully: do your wounds pain you any?"

Ezio didn't want to show it, but her eyes were too stern. Somehow, he felt she would know it if he lied, like a mother with an impish son. "A little," he allowed, shifting to test his muscles and immediately wincing for his efforts, "Mostly my back aches."

She nodded. "There is a lot of bruising along your spine, but nothing broken, thankfully. It looks as if you took a severe beating."

"More like fell onto a rooftop," he mumbled an answer, accepting her help and letting loose another wince as he shifted to a position sitting up.

"Don't you mean, 'from' a rooftop?" she corrected him, wondering again if she should recheck the knot on the side of his head. Nobody can fall upwards onto a rooftop.

"That came next," he sighed, easing back against a pillow she propped up behind him.

Margherita mentally shook her head and decided he must be teasing her. It did seem his nature, to be charming and teasing and a handful. Wisely she dropped the subject and allowed him his little mystery; if he had been caned for something, he undoubtedly would not wish to talk about it. "I can give you something that will ease the pain," she continued, taking note of the disapproving look that flickered across his features and amending, "But only if you wish. First, let me bring in some supper. While we eat, I will tell you what I know. Alright?" She waited for his answering nod, before swiftly standing up and heading out of the room, her movements clean and efficient.

After she had left, Ezio took the time to look around him, noting the coziness of the room, the warmth of the brazier in the corner and the simple plainness of the furnishings. It was not the room of a wealthy person by far, but it did show it belonged to one who was well enough off not to have to worry for food or clothing or shelter. Whatever else Margherita Campi was—wife or widow, mother or child, noble or peasant—she was an independent woman.

He decided he liked that about her.

She returned quickly, a tray balanced carefully in her hands. The smell of the stew and fresh bread was almost palatable, hitting him like a wave crashing onto the shore, and he found his stomach grumbling in response. If she heard the sound, she gave no indication other than a slight tug at the corner of her mouth, and a muted twinkling in her blue eyes. Setting the tray down on a chest near a lamp, she turned back to the bed, a bowl in one hand, a roll in the other. He accepted the food, flashing her a warm and promising smile as thanks, and was rewarded when she blushed.

The next moment she seemed to laugh at herself, or perhaps at his efforts, and made herself roll her eyes, "Oh, si, you are a handful, Messer Ezio. Now, eat your supper, slowly, intesi? Do so, and I won't have to interrupt my story to scold you."

"Si, Dottore Margherita, I will be a good little boy." His words and tone belied his actions, but he did dutifully set the bread on his lap and began spooning the stew into his mouth. Slowly.

She gave a long suffering sigh, but sat down on the edge of the chest and picked up her own bowl of stew. She toyed with it, taking small bites every now and then, while she began her narration. "It was yesterday, late afternoon or early evening; with the storm, it was hard to tell the time. Anyway, there was a knock on my door, and I thought it odd, considering the weather. But, if someone was there, it had to have been serious, to get them out of their homes in the middle of such a storm."

"Scusa," he interrupted her, and received another stern look, but he didn't back down, "But, who is 'they'?"

The look vanished, replaced by surprise. "Oh! Scusa, but I should be asking your pardon, Messer. Let me back up a little. I am…" she took a deep breath, searching for a way to explain her unusual occupation, "Well, when you call me 'dottore,' it is not too far from the truth. I'm not a dottore, of course, I am a woman, but I do know of medicine, and the villagers know they can come to me, for elixirs or splints or births or dressings and the like. It is unusual, si, but I am closer than a real dottore, and I charge far less."

Ezio gestured at himself, "You are a real enough dottore from where I'm standing, or, um, sitting."

She blushed again, though this time it was not the fluster of being flirted with, but deep gratitude. "Grazie, Messer Auditore."

"Call me Ezio."

The blush changed back to embarrassment. She cleared her throat, staring into her bowl which was far safer than staring at the half-naked man lying in her bed. "Ezio," she allowed, wishing she could get her wayward thoughts back under control. "I, um," she paused to take a bite and use the time to remember where she had left off, "I heard the knock, and thought it was one of the villagers, something serious to get them out in that bad of a storm. So I opened my door rather quickly, expecting the worst.

"Only it wasn't any of the villagers standing there," she continued, feeling brave enough to look back up at him, now that she was back to reciting the story, "But you and your friend. He was holding you up, half carrying you, as you didn't look able enough to keep your own feet. He was also trying to keep his cloak over your head, or as much of you as he could manage. Needless to say, he had his hands full. He quickly stated that he had asked in the village for the nearest dottore, and was directed here. I answered that I knew a bit of medicine, and invited you both inside. He looked skeptical at first, but you were very sick, and the storm was very bad, and he seemed very desperate to get help for you."

"Beggars can't be choosers."

She nodded, "Si, I believe that was his conclusion. So he brought you inside. I could see that you had been bleeding for some time, judging by your stained clothing, and directed him to lay you on the bed. He said you had been shot by something, not an arrow or a dart, but something that uses little round lead balls?" Her tone of voice let him know that she hadn't believed his friend, but when he nodded unsurprised by the strange statement, she readjusted her thoughts. "At any rate, he feared the bits of lead may still have been inside you, causing your fever. I checked the wounds and assured him that, if it became necessary, I could perform surgery.

"Though it was not necessary," she added. "The wound on your lower right side is more a graze or a furrow, the projectile slicing into muscle but no further, though it did make two holes in your tunic. The wound in your left shoulder was more troublesome, but there was both an entrance and an exit, so I doubted there was any sort of projectile still inside your shoulder. However, it did look to be slightly infected, which undoubtedly was what has been causing your fever."

Now he gave her the disbelieving look, "A wound gave me a fever? Not a bad vapor or an excessive amount of bile or something of that sort?"

"It was the wound, or rather, the infection around the wound," she nodded her head. When he continued to stare at her, she defended herself, "I do know my medicine, Messer Ezio. You are alive, are you not? Sitting up? Regaining your strength? And your fever gone?"

He swallowed the last bite of stew, and allowed her point, "Si. Scusa, Dottore Margherita. So you tended my injuries and cured my fever. But what happened to my friend?" He tore off a chunk from the roll and used it to wipe the gravy out of the bowl.

She gave a shrug and stared at a patch on the blanket. "Truthfully, I do not know. He watched me at first, I think to make sure I truly did know about medicine and would be able to take good care of you. Then he said something about having to bring in your satchel from outside. He set it on the floor in that corner over there," she nodded to the far side of the room, where indeed he could see a satchel propped up in the corner. It was not familiar to him, however, and he didn't remember having a satchel—or even a saddle for that matter—on the horse he rode from Monteriggioni. "Then, sometime while I was stitching closed the wound in your shoulder, he left. He never gave me his name, nor yours for that matter. However," she bit her lip, a bit guiltily, and glanced back down at her bowl, "He did leave a note with the bag."

Ezio sighed, looking at her closely for a moment. "You read it." It wasn't a question, but she nodded the affirmative. "The curiosity of women," he lamented, though he didn't seem too upset.

"Scusa, but, well," she stood and, in an effort to have something to do, walked over to pick up the note and bring it to him, "Your friend was gone, and you were so ill, I thought, I hoped that, perhaps, it might give a name or some clue as to who you and your friend were." She handed over the single-folded piece of parchment, "It wasn't like it was sealed or anything."

Ezio dismissed her invasion. He took the note and opened it, handing her the empty bowl with the other hand. He quickly scanned the contents as she returned to her perch on the chest. "Meet Machiavelli by the Mausoleo di Augusto," he read aloud, and suddenly an idea struck him on just who was this mysterious friend of his. "What did my friend look like?"

She didn't comment or wonder why he didn't know his friend; there had been far too many strange things happening this night. "I am sorry, Messer Ezio, but I cannot remember, nor do I think I truly took a good look at him. It was dark and raining, and he kept the hood of his cloak up. I could tell you he was of average build and height, and had dark eyes, but there was nothing distinguishing about him." She shrugged, "I was more observant of you and your injuries, than of your friend."

He waved it aside. "No matter, I think I know who it was. Tell me, where is this Mausoleo? Is it far?"

"Not too far, no, just west of here, further into Roma," she allowed, "But far enough that you wouldn't want to walk there right now. There are too many unsavory characters roaming the streets this time of night."

"Unsavory characters," he repeated, "Like the two you let into your home last night? A woman living all alone on the outskirts of Roma, who didn't think twice about allowing my friend and I inside, is going to lecture me about not trusting strangers?"

Margherita actually smiled. "I have no fear, Messer Ezio, my Knight protects me."

"Your… knight?" he asked, wondering if he had misjudged the situation, if she didn't live alone, but had a companion or husband or some other male relation. Yet he didn't have the chance to ask for clarification. The door, which had been slightly ajar, was suddenly pushed open and a large, dark shape entered the room.

Margherita laughed, a sound like rain falling in the forest, and greeted the enormous ambling shape that approached her side. She reached out and stroked the head right behind an ear. "He must have heard me say his name. Knight is my dog," she answered, turning to face him once more. He was caught off guard by the change. Her face, seen clearly in the lamplight, was shining with her happiness. "He is my companion, and my protector, but I usually keep him away from my patients. His size sometimes upsets them." She allowed the animal to lay his large head on her knee, smiling as she scratched the other ear. "Still, he always knows if a stranger is to be trusted or not, and he liked the look of you and your friend. I may not have known either of you, much less had reason to trust you, but I trust my Knight."

Ezio looked at the dog with respect, but had to feel some humor at the large, lolling tongue drooling onto Margherita's lap. His chuckle was short-lived, however, his arm wrapping around to grip at his wound. "Do not laugh," she chided him when a slight grimace crossed his features. "Your stomach will be sore for a few days, but it should heal if you can let it. Would you like something for the pain, or to help you sleep?"

He didn't answer, but instead tried to sidetrack her. "The stew was very good, Madonna Margherita. Not only are you a skilled dottore, but a talented cook. You will make a man very lucky some day."

Her face darkened, the joy and love from earlier snuffed out like a candle flame.

"Scusa, I did not mean to upset you…"

"It is nothing," she waved it away, picking up the tray in preparing for standing up. "You should get some rest. Knight and I will leave you alone."

"No, Madonna Margherita," he said, reaching a hand out to her before she could turn away. "I have slept enough. Stay with me, just for a little while. I only wish to talk."

He left the sentence hanging, an open invitation, but Margherita wasn't sure an invitation to what. She looked up from the tray, and caught his eyes searching her, a look somewhere between desperation and desire. But it wasn't a physical sort of desire, more of a spiritual sort, and she was reminded again of that unrelenting force she had sensed earlier, the thing that had driven him to come to Roma and was keeping him alive, forcing him to heal quickly. "I have told you all I know of you and your friend, Messer Ezio…"

"But what of the city? What can you tell me of its people or its, er, politics? What is it like, living here in Roma?"

She sighed, but set the tray off to the side and returned to her perch on the chest. "You mean, what is it like, living under the Borgia?" She made a moue with her lips. "It is not a good time to be visiting Roma, if that is what you are asking. In fact, I had thought that was what had happened to you, that you were no friend of the Borgia's and had been attacked not far from here." The question was a leading one, but he didn't offer an explanation, so she continued. "The Borgia have been ruling by fear from the Vatican ever since Pope Alexander VI came to power. The Pope, however, has become more focused on religious pursuits than secular matters. Lately it has been more the son, than the father, who is ruling Roma."

"Cesare."

She started at the violent hiss he gave the name, but recovered quickly. "You know of him already, I see. Then I don't have to tell you what a monster he can be. Everywhere in the city you can see his presence, from the Borgia banners flying atop every palazzo, to the taxes imposed to support his army. He has towers all through Roma, towers full of soldiers and swordsmen and brutes. They terrorize the citizens of Roma, accosting and arresting innocent people at whim. They are nearly out of control, like a pack of rabid dogs that know their master is as bloodthirsty as their instincts."

Ezio looked closely at Margherita. "You sound like you also have suffered their attention."

Margherita dropped her gaze, once more stroking Knight's head. "Nowadays, everyone in Roma has either had trouble with the Borgia soldiers, or know of someone who has."

"What of the nobles?" he asked, shifting and testing his limits. His strength was returning, thanks in large part to her ministrations and cooking, but he wasn't ready to leave just yet, not when he had such a good source of local information. "Don't they have their own men to stand against Cesare?"

Margherita scoffed, and took the moment to hastily scrub a tear from her cheek. "The nobles are weak. Most of them bow and lick the boots of their Borgia masters. Too many are afraid of the threat of excommunication from the Pope if they should protest. And the smarter ones keep silent, giving only lip service to their oaths of loyalty while waiting for someone else to be the first to denounce Cesare. No, Messer Ezio, I'm afraid Roma is not as nice a city as your own Firenze must be. Perhaps you should return home."

"No," he disagreed, his eyes burning with the intensity of his determination. "I have business to conduct with Cesare. He has, after a fashion, invited me here to Roma. What kind of a guest would I be if I left right after arriving at the party?"

She recognized the dangerous undertone to his voice, and didn't offer comment. Instead she returned to her own gloomy memories of what life had briefly promised her.

"Campi."

She looked up at him when he said the name, spoken so softly she might have thought she imagined it, but the way he was staring at her left her feeling cold and exposed. "I knew I had heard that name before. There is a Count Campi here in Roma, is there not? Are you related to him?"

Margherita swallowed, dropping her gaze back to the dog. Ezio felt remorse for the intrusiveness of his question, and offered, "Forgive me, Madonna, for my rudeness. I should not have pried into your personal life."

She lifted her chin, squaring her shoulders and forcing a smile. "There is no need to apologize, Messer Auditore. You are a stranger to Roma as well as to me; there is no reason you should have known what subjects might upset me."

"For instance, the reason why you live alone?" He was inwardly pleased when she kept her gaze steady, though the hurt was evident. "The house is small, but comfortable. And though you have only a dog for a companion, the bed is large enough for two. I would guess that at one time you were married."

The tears tried to come, but she bravely held them back. "Why are you here in Roma, Messer Auditore?"

"I told you, call me Ezio."

"Why are you here, Messer Ezio?" she repeated, stubbornly holding onto the honorific. "You say you were invited by Cesare Borgia himself, but act as if the invitation was distasteful, even… injurious."

He leaned a little into the pillows behind him, gauging her as he responded. "I have not been completely truthful with you, Madonna Margherita. And I apologize for it. I could say it is for your own welfare, for knowing too much about me or my associates would be detrimental to your health."

His words were enough of a hint for her to figure the rest out for herself. "Assassino," she breathed the word, somewhere between fear and a prayer. They sat very silently for several moments, staring at each other, each seeming to learn and measure all they could of the other. At last Margherita was the first to break the spell.

"Va bene, do not acknowledge that, and later I can truthfully say you never told me other than your name. But know this, Ezio: I wish you Godspeed. And I shall pray every night for your success." She stood, upsetting Knight who had been peacefully dozing on her knee, and paced to the brazier. Her arms were hugging herself, as if she were cold, and as she stared into the glowing coals, a tale began unfolding from her lips that explained all her earlier tears.

"You've teased me about being a lady dottore, and have guessed at my married name. Now I will tell you how close you are to the truth. My father was a dottore, a skilled apothecary as well as a gifted surgeon. Since my mother… well, let's just say, she left us when I was very young. Since then, father took me with him when he tended to the sick, or collected herbs from the countryside. I was rarely from his side, so with nothing else to do, I watched him closely. I suppose you could say, I began learning his trade from a very young age." She paused briefly as a smile flickered across her profile. "I got to be quite good at it, and he quickly noticed that I was learning from him. He often would ask me what I thought a diagnosis would be, testing me, but I was seldom wrong. We went all over Roma, healing nobles and peasants alike with very little regard for payment. It was enough, father said, that he use his gift and abilities to help others; and let them pay what they could, when they could.

"A few years ago, Count Campi—not the current Count, but his older brother—Count Campi called for my father's services. His son, Gavino, had fallen from his horse and broken his leg. For two months father and I both attended to the young man. Though he was almost ten years older than me, he took a liking to me," she dropped her gaze to the floor and blushed, and a private little smile briefly crossed her lips, "And I to him. The Count learned of his son's interest in me, and offered to buy me from my father. Father refused; even after the Count made sure no other noble would seek out father's skill, he refused to sell me into the life of a mistress. It wasn't as if we suffered for lack of business due to the Count's vindictiveness; though he no longer served the richer citizens of Roma, there were plenty of the lower classes who wished only for the services of a good dottore, and cared nothing about his daughter's status."

She paused again, taking the time to remember something pleasant amidst her plain existence. "But Gavino and I continued to meet clandestinely. There are plenty of old ruins and abandoned buildings in Roma that serve well for secret rendezvous. After a few months, when I turned fourteen and came of age, he took me away from here, away from Roma. We found a priest in some distant village out in the countryside who was willing to marry us, for a small bribe of course. And for several months we were very happy. Eventually, however, he decided we must return to Roma and face our fathers. Though sometimes I wonder what would have happened if we hadn't returned, if we had instead taken to ship and sailed to a distant country." She was lost for a moment, before she shook herself out of her daydream and took up her narration once more.

"When we returned to Roma, we found out that our fathers had had an argument over us. After my father discovered I was missing, he rode to confront Count Campi, accusing him of abducting me to satisfy his son. In return, the Count accused me of stealing Gavino away with some bewitching elixir. Father was so angry over the implied witchcraft, he struck the Count. A duel quickly followed," she paused again, her hands gripping her arms tighter, "And father was killed. Gavino knew the accusations were groundless and the duel staged, and when he learned how his father had so shamelessly baited and killed my father, he denounced his inheritance. He brought me out here, to the edge of Roma, and we began our life together."

She still hadn't turned towards the bed, but Ezio watched fascinated as her profile lifted and another happy smile lit her face. "We were happy here. Though Gavino wasn't much of a farmer, he was a better landlord. The family down the hill rented the farmland from us, and in return we got a share of the crop. He was better with animals, though, having raised Knight from a puppy. And since he had a good eye for animal flesh, he went into partnership with a butcher down in the village. I began practicing my medicine, such as I was allowed, and made herbal teas and elixirs for coughs and colicky babies and so forth. The villagers, though a little hesitant at first, quickly began to get used to us and greet us as we passed on the streets. At the end of the first year, I bore Gavino a son. At the end of the second year, though, everything changed.

"Gavino received word that his father was very ill, and had summoned him presumably to make amends. He went to see the Count, but returned after only a short visit. He told me the Count had admitted he thought he was dying, and wanted his son to denounce his marriage to me. In return, he would have his inheritance reinstated, and become the next Count Campi. Gavino said he laughed at him, told him he would never abandon me or our son, and left again, this time for good. Not a week had gone by when word reached us that the Count had died, leaving his title to pass to his younger brother, Gavino's Uncle Lauro. The day after that…" Margherita's voice broke at last, her eyes squeezing shut against the pain and the tears.

"The day after that," she forced the words out as she forced her eyes open, "I was in the foothills with Knight, collecting herbs for my practice. Gavino and the baby were home. When I got back," she fought down another sob. "When I got back, I found both of them dead. Savio, our neighbor who rents the land, Savio said Borgia soldiers came that morning. They were very loud… boasting, even. They made no pretense about their mission to our home. They wanted everyone to know what they were doing, and why, making an example of Gavino for the whole village. You see, the new Count Campi was worried that his nephew, the rightful heir, might make a case for the title now that his father was dead and unable to dispute his claim. So he made a pact with Cesare Borgia. In exchange for Lauro's loyalty and his men, Cesare would send his soldiers to deal with my husband, keeping Lauro's hands clean of his nephew's fate. Gavino's body was riddled with arrows, and our son had been trampled into the dirt by horses. If I had been home, I would have been killed, too."

She turned now to face Ezio, and he drowned in the tears overflowing from her deep blue eyes. "Gavino would never have claimed the title, and I'm sure he could have offered assurances satisfactory to Lauro if he had been given the chance. But he wasn't given the chance. He was brutally butchered, he and his son, his bloodline ended. That was a little more than a year ago, but for me it still feels like yesterday. My soul may be damned for this, but I pray that you are successful, Assassino. I imagine you are here for Cesare, but if you find the time or the opportunity, and though I cannot pay you, I would ask that you also take the life of Lauro Campi, for my husband's and son's sakes."

Ezio held her gaze for a long time, his golden eyes stern against her melted blue. When he spoke, his voice was just as stern as his eyes. "Do not mistake Assassini for mercenaries, Madonna Margherita. They do not take money for their kills. Nor do they kill merely for revenge. It is a higher creed we follow, one that makes us sacrifice of ourselves for the betterment of all men. If I am an Assassin, and here on business, it is not for my benefit, or yours, but for the benefit of all the citizens of Roma. Believe me, Margherita," his voice suddenly softened, filling with empathy, "Taking Lauro's life will not bring back your family, or make your pain any less. You will have to find your own way—a way that does not include revenge—to continue living without them."

She had refused to turn away, even after his words stung, even after the tears spilled down her cheeks, even after she began to shake from the force of her emotions. Instead she made herself face him, and the truth, with a bravery and a courage he couldn't help but admire. And when she could finally speak, her voice was hoarse and tired. "I understand, Messer Assassino, what you are saying. But I do not feel that way. Not yet."

He smiled, a little sadly, but mostly to give her encouragement. "I didn't expect you to, not right away. Someday, perhaps, you will be able to feel it. I pray you will. And I pray it comes sooner for you than it did for me."

His words held the ring of truth. She stood a little longer, wondering what pain, what loss, he could have suffered. Then she decided it didn't really matter what he lost; what mattered was that he knew how that loss felt. And if he could find a way to live with it, perhaps she could as well. She nodded and offered her own tight smile. "Grazie, Messer Ezio, for everything. I'll take the tray away now, and leave you to rest. Come, Knight."

The dog, who had been dozing this whole time near the chest, was instantly on his feet and ready to follow his mistress. He only paused a moment to sniff at Ezio, as if the animal could somehow read the man's mind, before he obediently padded after Margherita.

Ezio didn't stop her from leaving this time, he didn't even try. He knew the type of pain she was feeling, had felt it himself ever since his father and brothers were killed, had carried it with him like a yoke around his neck, had felt more weight added to it over the years—Uncle Mario the most recent…

He did not sleep, but quietly shifted out from beneath the bedclothes and pushed himself to his feet. His wounds protested, but not too severely, and he knew he would be able to manage. Carefully he started walking for the far corner, the aches dissipating and his strength returning with each step. He reached the satchel and looked inside, nodding in approval at the contents. Whoever had brought him here, whoever had left the satchel for him, was truly a friend of his.

By the morning, Margherita found the bedroom empty and the bed cold.


	2. Beginnings (Part II)

**Chapter Two: Beginnings (Part II)**

The man had taken his glove off to strike her, but that did her no favors. He wore a ring, the sharp edges of the stone slicing through her upper and lower lips. One part of her mind registered the slight injury, taking note of it's location and remembering there was a salve in her bag that would help it heal with only minimal scarring. Most of her, however, was occupied with more immediate concerns, as the force of the blow sent the air from her lungs and her head almost twisting off her neck. Thankfully, the rest of her body agreed to follow her head, keeping her neck from breaking, and she twirled for a few steps, trying to regain her balance.

Something stubbed her toe, cutting through her slipper and making her misstep. She fell forward through the air, unable to see where she was going as the room continued to spin. Then there was pain, pain as she'd never felt before, and stars burst into her vision, blinding her. Her bruised and battered neck suffered even more damage, feeling as if some thing very heavy and very dull had just tried to remove her head from her shoulders.

Margherita coughed, choked, gasped, heaved, but she could not bring the air back into her lungs. Her arms flailed, trying to find purchase, trying to leverage herself off and away from whatever was choking her, and one hand dug into something solid. She clawed at it in desperation, but only received a dozen or more splinters shoved under her fingernails for all her efforts.

"Lift her up."

Ungentle, gauntleted hands grabbed her, the metal edges of their armor bruising her upper arms, that one part of her brain again noting and cataloguing all her injuries. The next moment, she felt herself rising up through the air, and at long last the closing pressure in her throat was lessened and she was able to gasp a breath or two, enough anyway to clear the spots from her eyes. As her sight returned, she got a good look at what had been choking her. It was the table, knocked over onto its side. The captain's blow must have sent her crashing into it, her larynx striking the edge at just the right angle…

There it was again, that analytical side of her mind, the dottore, who studied and diagnosed and treated. That part of her had served her well in the past, earned her the respect and friendship of many people, allowed her a livelihood that kept body and soul together. Yet that part could do her no good at this particular moment.

It was a nightmare. It had to be. All the pain and the fear were part of a bad dream. And in a few moments she would wake up, open her eyes, and all would be right in the world. She would be safe and sound in her bed, her Knight standing guard over her, and the memory of this nightmare would fade before the light of morning. It was such a beautiful hope, she could almost smile.

Instead, sharp pain radiated through her scalp as someone used a handful of her hair to lift her head up, pulling a chunk out by the roots. Margherita gasped, struggling to bring in air past her partially squeezed throat, and this time had to blink tears instead of spots out of her eyes so she could see. Her vision filled with a face, a face she had already learned to fear and hate.

"No, piccino, you cannot sleep, not yet. You must finish answering my questions."

It was the face in front of her that was speaking in a heavy Spanish accent, the features belonging to the same man who had struck her earlier, who had been striking her for a good half hour already tonight. His breath was sickly sweet with cheap wine, and his chin was covered with reddish stubble. She stared, trying to make sense of his words, but that other part of her mind was again taking note of the signs of previous injuries, such his missing tooth, second from the front, right side. Possibly knocked out in a brawl or fight of some sort, going by the scarring on his gums…

"I want to know," he tugged her hair for emphasis, pulling out more of the strands, making her throat scream in agony, "Who was here the other day? Were they Assassini?" He paused, waiting for her to answer, his eyes studying her face. She started to speak, but her mouth was too bruised; moving her lips opened the scab that had tried to form and sent blood dripping down the front of her dress.

He let go of her hair, before any of the blood could splatter onto him, but he did not relent. "What were their names, piccino, eh? What did they look like? You must be able to tell me something. Whatever you know, just say it, and me and my men will leave. We won't bother you any more." He spread his hands, gesturing around the room, referring to the dozen or so men who were crammed into her home.

It was tempting, Dio Mio it was tempting, but she knew he was lying. These men were Borgia soldiers. She had known, from the moment she saw them ride up to her home, that her life was over. Regardless of what she did, whether or not she told them anything of value, she was going to die.

She struggled to inhale past her battered throat, but was barely able to breathe much less form a sound, so she shook her head. She received another blow for answer, the captain's ring cutting a deep channel into her cheek. This time she did not go spinning away, held as she was between the two brutes, dangling because her knees were too weak to hold her weight. She was able to lift her head, however, far enough to see he was holding his hand poised, ready to strike yet again if she wasn't willing to give him the answers he sought.

Stalling for time, trying to think of a way out of this, she looked past the captain's shoulder to gaze around the room. His men were tearing through her possessions right in front of her, searching for anything of value they could steal. She didn't care about that, knowing there was not much worth stealing, besides her medicines, and she could easily replace most of those. Instead her eyes sought the large, dark shadow lying in a dark red pool in the other room, just beyond the doorway. When the soldiers first came, Knight had tried to protect her, standing before her and barking like a hound of il diavolo himself. He had even taken a few fingers off of one of the soldiers, and immediately paid the ultimate price for his loyalty. To save his fellow soldier, one man had struck quickly and cleanly with a single sword stroke, nearly taking off Knight's head. Now the faithful hound lay in a small sea of his own blood, no longer breathing. The injured soldier was rummaging through her medicines for anything that would help him, his dog-murdering friend assisting in wrapping the bandages around the bleeding stub of a hand. That other part of her mind popped up again, wanting to remind them to clean the wound first lest it get infected—her training at her father's side too ingrained to ignore. But thankfully the moment passed and the dottore in her grew quiet once more.

Keeping Knight's loyalty—his sacrifice—in mind, she returned her eyes to the scruffy face in front of her. She knew she was going to die; there was nothing she could do to avoid that. Therefore, if her death was inevitable—if betraying Ezio Auditore could not save her—then there was no point in telling the captain anything. For whatever the reason the Assassin had come to Roma, it had to be for Cesare's detriment. And that was something worth giving her life for! Bravely she began to straighten up from where she hung between two brutes, and worked her mouth carefully, trying to avoid opening the cut on her lip any further.

"Someone did come to the door," she whispered, tears of pain escaping the corners of her eyes. Carefully she adjusted the angle of her neck, but to no avail. Her voice was hoarse, all but gone, cracking painfully through her bruised throat, yet she persevered through her brief speech. "But I did not speak with them. It was late. Raining. I told them to go away. My dog barked at them. So they left. I never saw them. I never let them in."

The captain pulled his face back, making a sound of disgust while he considered her words. "Makes sense, Captain" one of the brutes holding her arms spoke into the silence, and the captain looked at him sharply in response, turning his eye from their subdued prisoner to the hapless man. The soldier swallowed but affected nonchalance, giving a shrug and continuing, "A young woman who lives alone. Two strangers come to her home late on a stormy night. I wouldn't have let them in, if I were her. And you saw how her dog acted when we arrived; it took half of Ugo's hand. It could very easily have scared off the two men we're looking for. Besides, the old beggar in the village just told us the two strangers were asking for a dottore, and the patron at the tavern had directed them here. He never said he saw the men enter this house."

There was silence after he spoke, a cold and deadly silence, and Margherita got the feeling that the men very rarely tried to speak on behalf of their detainees. She looked away, avoiding the captain's eyes, trying to act submissive and cowed. She let the rest of the tears fall, using them to try to soften the captain's heart. If he believed her, if he listened to his men, then maybe she could survive this.

"Could be you're right," the captain allowed, and Margherita felt hope swell her chest. "Could be she never helped the two men. But it doesn't really matter. She's as good as dead anyway." And just as quickly, her chest fell, all hope gone.

He leaned in close to her again, and she tried to pull away, the smell of his sweat and the stink of cheap wine on his breath overpowering her senses. "You wouldn't know this, piccino," he breathed, and she almost gagged in the brunt of a face-full of the halitosis, "But I led the men who came here last year, the men who killed your alleged husband and the bastard you bore him. Do you remember that? You were supposed to die, too, but you weren't home when we paid our visit." His fingers touched her cheek, gently, right next to the cut he had left. "I didn't think it was worth it, to make the trip all the way back out here just to kill you, so I let you live all this time. But now fortune has smiled upon me, and I have the opportunity to tie up this little loose end, eh?"

He took a handful of her hair again, pulling her face up and around to meet his, straining her bruised throat even further. "I'm feeling merciful today, so I'll give you a choice. You can die here, like your dog, only something slow and painful and… entertaining. Or you can service me and my men, and we'll make your death nice and quick and painless. Do a good enough job," his face was so close to hers, his eyes appeared as one, turning him into a vision of an evil ogre or mythical cyclops, "And we might take you with us, let you live, as our camp follower. What do you say, piccino? It has been over a year since you've felt the touch of a man's body dominating yours. Can you tell me that you don't miss it?"

He gave her half a second, and then he ground his mouth against hers, unmindful of the cut and the blood. His other arm wrapped around her waist, pulling her out of the brutes' grasp and tight against his body. A few quick steps and he fell on top of her onto the bed, his arousal obvious against her hip. She struggled not to panic, feeling the emotion building within her and wanting to spill out of control. Instead she forced her body to lay very still, suffering his attention, until he loosened his grip on her to adjust his clothing.

Margherita knew a fair amount regarding anatomy. She brought her knee up hard into his groin and was rewarded when she heard the breath burst from his lungs. Immediately her fist moved, swinging up from her side and striking the underside of his chin. The momentum of both blows unbalanced him, causing him to roll away from her off to the side. Free of the oppressive weight of his body, she rolled the other way and began scrambling across the mattress. Whatever his men were doing, they didn't seem to want to interfere with their captain's entertainment and stayed out of the fight, and she took full advantage of this fact to make good her escape. She almost reached the other side of the bed when something caught her ankle. Looking back, she saw the captain, kneeling on the bed, one hand clutching his groin while the other clawed at her leg.

"Puttana!" he gasped, calling her a whore, his face screwed up in a mask of pain and evil and hatred, "You'll die for that!" Spittle foamed in the corners of his mouth and his eyes seemed to glow with unholy light.

Already with one death sentence hanging over her head—she would never have agreed to his offer to become a courtesan for an entire camp!—she threw caution to the wind and kicked at his face with her other foot. She felt her heel connect with his head, missing anything of import like his nose, and glance off to land heavily against his shoulder. Still, he would not let go of her, his fingers crushing her ankle like a vise. His smile oozed with ire as he finally caught his breath and let go of his groin, his hand hanging in the air for a moment, poised to join the first and pull her back beneath him. Feeling the panic return, she tried to find something to grab, something she could use to pull herself out of his grasp before it was too late, but the covers and mattress were too flexible to be of any use. She stretched out further, unwilling to take her eyes off of him, blindly reaching above her for whatever might give her some leverage. Her fingers discovered something metal and heavy, and she knew right away what was there. She grasped the stand of the brazier with both hands and yanked with all her might, her slim muscles straining, struggling to get away before it was too late.

She had meant to pull herself out of the captain's grip, but his hold was too strong; she could not budge herself. Instead the brazier gave way, tipping over above her head, the glowing coals raining down onto the bed, sparks shooting into the air like lightening. She felt something strike the right side of her face but there was no pain, only the tap of the blow, before she reflexively turned away. Numbness swept through her, a self-preserving response to extreme injury; the dottore in her explaining the reaction as well as the seriousness of her situation. But she was finding it too hard to listen to it.

Her vision was growing dark again, the spots crowding the corners of her sight, making everything fuzzy. Her ears were still working, however, and she heard the captain curse, "Cazzo!" Then the clawing fingers on her ankle gave way at last. She moved her leg, not because she was still trying to escape, but only because she had been trying to move it for so long and at long last she could.

"Captain!" one of the other men yelled, and the bed shifted beneath her, bouncing her slightly. Irrelevantly she wondered if someone else had joined them, or had pulled the captain away. "Are you hurt? Watch out, the bed's catching on fire."

"I'm fine," she heard him growl as the bed shook more. She tried to get up, to at least leverage herself onto her elbows, but her limbs refused to work properly. A little sensation was beginning to return to her face, boding nothing but ill, judging by the almost freezing heat that seemed to cover the entire right side of her face. She could feel even more intense heat nearby through the sleeve of her gown, and automatically tried to move away from the unseen danger, rolling onto her side.

"I'm going to kill the bitch!"

The tones were harsh, angry, vindictive, and undeniable. The claw was back at her ankle, at both ankles this time, dragging her across the bed, flipping her onto her back in the process. The bed bounced again, and a heavy object began pressing down on her chest and holding her in place. She scoffed mentally at the excessive gesture; it wasn't as if she could get away any longer, her limbs too uncoordinated and her vision refusing to focus on anything further away than, well, than the knee pressing down onto her sternum.

Suddenly something hard and sharp struck the hurt side of her face, pain flaring to new heights and causing her mind to burst into life. Her thoughts began to clear of the detached fog, returning to assessing injuries and searching for options. Her body, however, remained uncooperative, limbs moving in odd directions, and her vision so blurry she still had yet to make sense of what she was seeing. She tried blinking, but everything remained dark and fuzzy, the shapes and colors moving too fast for her eyes to track, spinning and lurching around in circles. That something swung at her face again, and she was so unprepared for the blow, she wasn't able to flinch until after it struck.

"Captain!" it was that unseen soldier once more, somewhere beyond the shadows, beyond the hard object striking her face, beyond that knee holding her down. "The fire is spreading. We have to get out of here before the whole house burns down. Leave her; she's as good as dead anyway."

More blows had landed while the unseen voice spoke, but at last the soldier's words must have penetrated the captain's infuriated brain. She felt one final blow, this one to her ribs, before the shapes began moving away.

The knee lifted off her chest, and she was able to take a deep breath. Immediately she regretted it, feeling the dull ache in her side where the last blow had fallen. For once her arm obeyed her brain, her hand wrapping around herself, her fingers cupping the injury. While she gently probed the tender spot, she suddenly realized she was alone on the bed. Dio mio, she could finally get away.

Her reprieve was short lived. Though she had enough time to note that her ribs were only bruised, not broken—there's that damn dottore again—she had no time to figure out in which direction she wanted to move, much less make the attempt to move towards freedom.

"I'm going to make sure she burns here," she heard the captain's voice say. He was barely discernible over the sounds of feet scampering across the dirt floor, the crackling of wood being consumed by a fire, the shouts of alarm and the clatter of armor. But she did hear his voice. She also heard a crossbow being fired, and felt the bed shift one last time from the force of the bolt hitting it, but nothing more. Then the captain's steps followed those of his men.

She was alone at last.

Well, not completely alone. The dottore in her was screaming at her, telling her she had to stay awake, she had to fight off the darkness a little longer and make her body respond. Knowing there was no way to shut it up, she gave serious consideration on how to obey the voice. She supposed she could try rolling onto her side as she had done before. That seemed the easiest course of action, but it was still so hard to make her limbs obey. Her right hand moved, but the arm refused to follow, as if something was keeping her pinned to the bed. She lifted her head, blinking her eyes to clear them, and saw feathers sticking out of her right shoulder. Laughter bubbled up inside her, born aloft by panic and hysteria and pain and exhaustion. Briefly she wondered when she had sprouted feathers, and if she had also sprouted wings to match, because then she could simply fly away out of there…

Flames caught the right sleeve of her dress, licking hungrily at the fabric and blistering the skin beneath. instinctively she tried to pull away from the fire, tried to roll onto her left side, and that indescribable pain once more returned, shooting through her immovable shoulder. And with it came another surge of adrenaline, lending energy and clarity to her senses, and at long last a coordination to her muscles that had been sorely lacking for quite some time.

Margherita blinked the last of the spots from her vision and focused her attention on her shoulder. She could see that the feathers belonged to a bolt that held her pinned to the burning mattress. She forced away the pain from the fire singeing her sleeve and the bolt piercing through her flesh, knowing that worse pain was in store for her if she couldn't free herself. She took several quick and deep breaths, steeling herself, before she gripped the end of the shaft with her left hand and snapped it off quick and clean, as close to her shoulder as she could manage. Immediately she moved—she couldn't allow herself to pause long enough to feel as she knew that would be the end of her—sitting up and pulling her shoulder up and off the bolt. A scream escaped her lips, the jagged edge of the bolt tearing at the inside of her wound, but she was free. Still without pause, she twisted away from the fire, desperate to escape the conflagration, but a few stubborn flames clung to her right sleeve, refusing to be put out. Patting at the flames with her left hand, she reached her feet and lurched away from the bed, as far as she could get, before her toes stumbled and she collapsed to the floor.

Again her injuries exploded in fresh pain. Again she had to fight through the darkness. Somehow, either thru God's mercy or Providence or Fate or sheer dumb luck, she had been given this chance to stay alive; she had to keep trying! Her side was still on fire; she could hear the flames hissing against her sleeve, and feel her skin boiling and blistering beneath the fabric. She rolled the arm underneath her, trying to smother the fire with her body, and felt something wet and sticky between her and the floor. Opening her eyes, she found herself wallowing in Knight's blood, the edges of the red pool already beginning to bubble from the heat building within the room. But the center of the puddle, the muck where she currently lay, was still wet enough to do the job.

With the fire on her body now extinguished, she clambered to her knees and forced herself to sit up. She looked around and took a quick stock of her situation. Back in the other room, the bed was rapidly being consumed by fire—it must have started when when she tipped the brazier, the metal landing against her face and the glowing coals scattering all over the bedclothes. More coals had rolled off the side of the bed to land against the walls and the chest, and other fires had started around the room. In the time it had taken her to escape the bed and put out her arm, the fire had spread quickly through the old dry wood of the house. It hadn't helped that the escaping soldiers had left the front door wide open, allowing fresh air into the two room house and feeding the hungry flames. An ominous groaning reached her ears and, panting, she stared upwards; the fire had just reached the thatch roof, spelling her doom.

She knew she had to keep moving; she made it this far, after all, she could make it a little further. She got to her feet, only slipping once in the pool of blood, and headed for the front door. Two steps, she made it two whole steps before she was halted with frustration. The fire was all around the opening, the wood blackened and creaking, the flames jetting out from the sides as if trying to stretch across the opening and form their own impassible door. It would be close, and she might catch fire again, but she felt she could still make it through the opened doorway. Then, before she could reach it, before she could gather the courage to jump through the dubious exit, the wood above gave way and collapsed in front of the entrance.

Margherita had never cursed, never fully cursed with those certain awful words, in all her life. She nearly did tonight. There was no way she could make it through the doorway now; she'd have to hurdle a pile of burning lumber as high as her thigh and half again as wide. As if to remove any doubt, the roof in that section quickly followed the doorway, adding to the bonfire, closing off any hope of escape.

Frustrated, she turned away from the fire, turned away from all the closed off options, turned to find any other exit, and saw the lone window that looked down onto the village. The fire hadn't reached it yet, not through the walls, but the roof was burning faster than the sides of the house. Still, that lone wall, that one side, that tiny window remained untouched. She didn't stop to consider, moving almost before she had finished her plan, forcing her legs to jump and propel her body up and over the sill. The roof creaked and groaned, as if sensing she was about to get away, and collapsed on her heels, but she made it through. She landed hard on the ground, the air whooshing from her lungs, but thankfully it was on her uninjured shoulder. A short roll later—mainly to expel her momentum and lessen the initial jarring impact—and she was free of the flames and the house.

Margherita laid on her back, gasping for breath, her eyes staring listlessly at the stars high above her. It was pleasant to lie there, after all the hectic panic and excruciating pain and deathly threats of the past hour or more. It was very pleasant indeed to simply lie there and breathe and gaze at the sky. Her breathing slowed, her muscles relaxed, her mind calmed, the starlight reflected in her watery eyes. The stars themselves twinkled against their midnight canopy, some of them shifting colors from white to green or red or blue; it was almost mesmeric. She didn't even notice the cold of winter.

Then a shadow fell across some of them, blocking them from her sight, the shadow darker than the night. The stars she could still see began to move, turning and spinning above her. She was too tired to do anything more than watch them move, wondering if she were dying and her soul was flying up to meet them, soaring to heaven on those feathered wings she had sprouted earlier…

She wasn't sure when it happened, but eventually the last of the stars went out, consumed by a darkness she simply could not fight off any longer.

* * *

…

a flash of blinding light

…

…another flash of light, softer this time, accompanied by a buzzing sort of sound…

"Madonna? Madonna Margherita?"

…no light this time, but the buzzing persisted, like a mosquito or a bee. Bees would be preferred; they made honey, and honey would be something useful right about now…

"Madonna, please, wake up! Margherita! Please!"

…but why she wanted the honey, she couldn't remember. She wasn't drinking any tea, nor making any baked sweats. Now that she thought about it, there was only one other reason she used honey…

"Madonna Margherita, please, wake up. You must tell us what to do. We are trying, but we do not know medicine as you do. Please! Wake up!"

…medicine… she did know medicine… and she used honey a lot… making salves for wounds and helping elixirs taste better so her patients would take their medicine…

"Madonna," the voice almost sobbed, quiet yet painful, "Please, I… I do not know… there is so much soot… and blood… where do we start… what should we do… what do you need to…"

The buzzing was beginning to make sense, leaving behind the sound of bees and morphing into words. Understandable words. And a familiar voice, a woman's voice, one she knew very well. She had stood and gossiped with this voice, passed the time in idle chatter while their husbands did the same.

"Margherita," the voice softened even further, a whispered prayer, an ashamed plea, as if the other woman was using a forbidden term or name, a far too familiar type of address, "Margherita, please, you must wake up. You must tell us what to do. You must heal yourself!"

Wake up, she repeated to herself, si, it was time to wake up. Past time, perhaps. But she was unable to make herself do what the other woman was asking of her. Waking up took too much effort, and brought too much pain. It would be easier—and better, wouldn't it?—to give in to the cool darkness of oblivion and sleep. No, she would not wake up, not quite yet, perhaps a bit later, when she wasn't quite so tired and sore. Right now she only wanted to rest.

She began to sigh, her intention being to roll over away from the voice, ignoring it and drifting back off to sleep. But the heavy breath delved too far into her lungs, clean air encountering the bad that had lain there through the night. They mixed, intermingled, the bad air getting stirred up and lifted, removed, ferreted out from the furthest reaches of her lungs, like smoke curling up from smoldering coals. The stale and smoky air burned her, seared her, from within this time rather than without like the fire had last night, as it tried to make its way out of her chest. Reflexively, she coughed.

Pain. Pain that went beyond what a person could bear. Pain that refused to be conquered with description. Pain that left her breathless and mindless and powerless. Pain that threatened to kill.

Grimly Margherita set her teeth, forcing herself to control her breathing, to calm the coughing, to ease the pain. It was a hard battle, made evident by the white-knuckled grip of her left hand. At least there was something there for her to take hold of, something soft and yielding and something that did not protest her desperate grasp. She focused on that touch, distracting herself from the pain, while she quieted her breathing.

Fabric. She was clutching fabric, something humble and homespun, something modest yet well-made. She forced her fingers to lessen their grip, to spread out and discover what it was she had taken hold of, to focus on something else—anything else!—while she tried not to think about what injuries she had sustained, not yet anyway. Her hand moved over the fabric, feeling a deep softness beneath the fabric, until she encountered a curve and her hand fell away into thin air.

Someone caught it. Someone caught her hand, another person, warm and alive and nearby. Another's fingers wrapped around her own, and she could feel the other's trembling. This other person pressed their hands against something else, warm and soft like flesh, but fluttering up and down with uneven movement.

Margherita allowed her eyes to drift open, carefully, mindful of that blazing white light from earlier, but that light was gone. The room was actually hazy, almost dark, and for a moment she wondered if she and this other person were back in her home, up on the hill, caught by the smoky fire. She blinked once, twice, her vision becoming lighter and clearer each time, and saw that though she was in a home, it was not her own. She blinked one last time and focused her eyes on the face, floating above where their hands were clasped against the other woman's bosom.

"Anita."

Anita choked back a sob, though she couldn't stop the tears falling off her cheeks. "Si, Madonna Margherita, it is me. You are here, safe, with Savio and me, intesi?"

"Savio," she repeated, or tried to, but her voice was already too dry, too broken, too mangled to make a coherent sound. Her throat was sore and constricted from having nearly been completely crushed last night. Her lip was swollen and thick and unable to move properly and form the correct sounds; already she could feel the scab break open and fresh blood ooze out to dribble down her chin. Half her face, nearly the entire right side, felt… well, in a word, wrong. There was a tightness, a dryness, a numbness, a strange pulling of skin she could still feel, as it moved around skin that would not move.

There were other various bruises and cuts, less serious and worrisome, all along her face and neck and torso and upper arms. Those were trifling matters that would or could heal themselves given time. Her right arm, however, did cause her some concern, not because she remembered it being burned in the fire, not because she could feel those burns charring her flesh, but because she could neither feel part of her arm, nor move it.

She swallowed, carefully, almost fruitlessly as her mouth refused to provide a sufficient amount of spit. She tried to turn her face towards her right side, to see who was there, sensing that would be where she would find the faithful Savio, but the skin of her face protested and cracked and oozed and burst into fresh pain.

"No, Madonna Margherita, do not try to move. You are too badly hurt," a deep masculine voice rumbled from that blocked side. "We are here, Anita and I. You are safe, in our home. Do not fear, intesi?"

"Si," she breathed, but she did look out of the corner of her eye to see him, hovering over her other side. Savio was a large man, thick of limb and barrel chested, with hands that were calloused from having worked every single day of his life. She knew the severity of her injuries, she knew he would not have the skill to do what would be required to save her life, and she knew Anita would not have the mental and emotional strength to do the tasks, either. She looked back towards the woman, her friend, and spoke one more word, "Dottore."

"Prego?" Anita's voice sounded even higher and smaller, like that of a frightened little girl.

"She's asking us to fetch a dottore for her," Savio was a little quicker on the uptake.

"Oh," Anita breathed, getting confirmation from Margherita's hand squeezing hers. She looked from her husband back down to her landlady, tears refilling her eyes. "Oh, scusa, but we cannot. The soldiers that came last night, they are still in the village, drinking in the tavern, celebrating. They believe you died in the fire. If we bring a dottore here, they will see, they will investigate, and they will learn that you lived. Then they will come here and kill you, kill us all…"

Anita's voice broke down into a near wail, low and lamenting, and causing Margherita even more distress than her injuries ever could. No, she would not ask her friends to risk their lives for her, not with the soldiers so close at hand. She would have to wait for the soldiers to leave, even though that might take too long, even though she could grow too weak or sick by then. Yet the only other option was…

"You will have to be your own dottore," Savio's practical and calm voice echoed her own thoughts. "Tell us what needs to be done, Madonna Margherita, and we will do it. What is first?"

"A mirror," she sighed, trying to find some way to speak that would make herself heard while causing the least amount of pain.

"Er," Savio hedged, "We have no mirror. Nothing like that. We've never been able to afford such a luxury."

Of course, Margherita thought to herself, she should have realized that. She had grown up, spent nearly her whole life, surviving off a low level of income herself. It was only after marrying Gavino that she came to learn something of luxury; even after he denounced his title, he had already amassed a fair amount of coin under his own name, allowing them to purchase their home and live comfortably. Quickly she set aside the wayward thought and made her mind work, trying to find a suitable substitute. "Brass," she forced the single word out, and then more to follow, "Something metal. Shiny. Reflective. Must see… see the extent… of… injuries…" It was hard, it was far too hard to speak for any length of time, but she would need to. She was a dottore; even if women weren't allowed to be dottores, she knew as much if not more than most other dottores. And she could treat herself better than any other dottore in Roma. Yet to do that, she would need to see how severe were her wounds.

"The plate," Savio suddenly announced. "The one your parents gave us, as a wedding gift."

"The bread plate?" Anita repeated, confused.

"Si, si, go and fetch it. Quickly. And make sure there are no crumbs or smudges on the surface." As his wife raced to the main room, he turned to the dottore/patient and explained, "It is made of copper. A bit dull, but you should be able to see enough, Madonna Margherita."

She managed a smile, on the undamaged side of her face, and gave a little shake, "Margherita… no more madonna…"

Savio didn't understand what she could mean by those words, and feared the worst. He reached across to her left side and touched her cheek, getting her to look at him out of the corner of her eye. "Do not worry about that now; it will wait. First we must get you whole again, eh?"

She nodded, carefully, but even the slightest movements brought pain. Savio found himself hard pressed to remain impassive, as he watched the marks on her cheek crack open and begin to ooze puss. He had his doubts about allowing his landlady to view her injuries—she was a woman after all—but then he remembered she was of sterner stuff than most women. He had seen her set bones, sew knife cuts closed, even slice into a young boy's arm to remove a thorn and dead tissue from an infected wound. No, he knew she could handle viewing the injuries; he simply wasn't sure she could handle viewing them when they were on her own body.

Anita returned with the bread plate, the metal surface hastily scrubbed by her apron and now sporting a dim shine. He took it from her trembling fingers before she dropped it, gave it a few more quick swipes with his own tunic, and held it carefully between his hands as he once again hovered over Margherita. "Are you sure you want to see this?"

She squeezed her eyes shut a moment, but that was all the weakness she allowed herself. She didn't have a choice, none of them had a choice; for whatever reason, she was still alive, and she found herself wanting to continue living. To do that, she would have to see, she would have to assess the damage. And she would have to distance herself from what she saw, tell herself it was another person in the reflection, someone else's burns and cuts. She nodded and stared at the bottom of the copper tray as Savio carefully adjusted it.

It was harder than she expected, and at the same time easier. Harder, because the wounds were so severe, easier, because her face did not show in the reflection of the plate. She was looking at her shoulder and upper arm, at the dress that was blackened and burned. In some places the fabric had burned entirely away, or was flaking off bit by bit, more and more, with each minuscule shift of the bed. The flesh beneath it was covered in oozing blisters, and angry red along the edges. Unfortunately, in places she saw the dress had been burned into the wounds. No, this was not going to be pleasant, she thought to herself as she began making a mental list of instructions they would have to follow.

"Higher," she commanded, her left hand pointing to where she wanted to see, the wound in the shoulder. She remembered the bolt had gone straight through, a simple though painful puncture wound. Yet when she had escaped the bed, she feared some of the jagged bits of the wooden shaft had scraped and broken off inside. She added the unpleasant task of cleaning out the wound and digging for splinters to her list.

"Higher," she commanded one last time, her left hand rising to her neck and cheek. Savio hesitated, but did as she bid him, his hands as steady and solid as a mountain. Perhaps she should have him do the more gruesome tasks, even if Anita would be more agile, simply because Savio was less unnerved by what he saw.

Then her face tilted into view, or what was left of it, and she had to press her hand against her bosom to keep it from shaking. There were three long marks falling slantways across her cheek and down onto her neck, as if she had been burned with a branding iron, no doubt caused by the heated metal of the brazier when it had tipped over onto her. There were also several cuts crisscrossing the brands, slices that tore through whole and injured flesh without discrimination, wide and jagged and in dire need of being stitched closed. Those had been caused by the captain's ring when he was striking her. Her neck fared no better, one of the brands marking her there as well as the deep blue, almost black bruise that fell across her half-crushed larynx. She tried to swallow at the sight, purely through reflex, and stared in horrific fascination as the injured throat in the reflection seemed to mimic her action, rather than being her.

But above all these injuries were the eyes, her eyes, staring back at her with hope and faith and trust and determination, as so many of her patients had done in the past. Her eyes, trusting herself to heal her own injuries, dottore and patient in one.

She had to look away.

"Water," she croaked. Before she could elaborate on her first instruction, Anita was eagerly pressing a cup to her lips. She decided not to argue, to save her breath—and her voice—and swallow the cool and refreshing liquid; she was going to need to drink, too. After the cup was pulled away, Margherita stared at Savio again and directed her instructions to him. "Clean the burns."

He nodded, "Va bene, I can do that."

"The dress," she pressed, trying to get as much out as she could before she grew too weak, "Pull out. Every fiber. Every thread. No matter…" Her lips continued to move, but her voice failed her.

"I understand, Madonna," he nodded. "I… I can do as you ask. I will make sure the burn on your arm is clean, of everything, fabric or dirt or soot."

She gave him that half a smile again, somewhat hidden as her right side was facing him, but she was fairly sure he got the message. "Shoulder. Splinters. Inside."

Savio swallowed, glancing up at his wife, but her face was greener than his. "Si, again," he felt defeated, once by a woman too strong and knowledgable, once by a woman too gentle and loving, "I will make sure nothing foreign remains inside the wound. What else?" he pressed, sensing she was weakening, wanting to know all that would need to be done before she lost consciousness again.

"Stitch it… closed…"

He looked up, "Anita, mi amore, you will have to do that. I cannot handle a needle, not with these thick fingers."

Anita looked like she wanted to vomit, but pressed her lips closed against the bile rising in her throat, and nodded tersely.

"Bene," sighed Margherita, moving down her list, letting her confidence in them show. "Honey. Burns."

"We have some honey," Anita nodded, "And I can go to market for some more."

"Do that while I clean her wounds," Savio suggested, finding an excuse to remove Anita before she herself grew sick. And Anita quickly jumped at the chance to do something, anything, for her friend, racing from the room before Margherita finished talking.

"Willow bark," she spoke to Anita's back, "Fever."

"Do not worry," Savio patted her good shoulder, knowing his wife was already out of earshot, "If needed, I will send Anita out again, or go myself for it, later on. Now, is there anything else I will need to do?"

Margherita thought of a few more herbs that could be used to make a poultice that should help in healing. And she would need to drink water, plenty of water. But these little nuggets of advice quickly fled her thoughts, when Savio bent over her arm and began to pull the sleeve away from the burns.

Though he tried to be gentle, there was no easy way to do the unpleasant task. Margherita gasped, convulsing, her one good hand clawing at the mattress beneath her in a death grip, her cries choked in her broken throat. He didn't waste his breath with apologies or comforts, but did his best to ignore her reactions and focus on his part. The sooner he was finished, the sooner she would be done with the pain.

By the time Anita had returned, he had done all he could for the young woman. She lay very still, very pale on the bed, her breaths short and shallow, as she struggled to remain conscious. He was bringing a cup to her lips, fresh water dribbling slowly down her ruined throat. "Anita, mi amore," he spoke softly, gently, a startling contrast to his thick build, "Bring me the vial, from the small chest in the corner, intesi?" Almost his entire concentration was on how much water he was dripping into Margherita's mouth, and how slowly it was taking her to swallow; he didn't want to drown her after everything they'd just been through.

"The… vial…?" Anita sounded confused at first, but then she caught on, "Oh! You mean the one she…"

"Just get it," he repeated, calmly, cutting over her words before she said something that would give away his intentions.

He needn't have bothered. Margherita was too exhausted, in too much pain, to bother with whatever secret message was being passed between the husband and wife. She didn't notice the vial being passed between them, nor the three drops he measured into the cup, nor even the sweetly heady taste to the water as he brought the cup back to her lips.

Two swallows later, and the liquid began to dribble down her chin while her head lolled to the side.

"Grazie a Dio, she's asleep," Anita breathed.

"Si," Savio agreed, leaning back from their landlady-turned-guest, their dottore-turned-patient. "While I was…" he paused, thinking it might be better not to mention all that he had been doing, "While you were gone just now, I had some time to think, and I remembered, last year when I nearly broke my ankle, Madonna Margherita mixed me that elixir for the pain. I also remembered how sleepy it made me. I had hoped it would help her sleep, too."

"It has," Anita laid her hand on his shoulder.

"The honey?" he asked, thinking of all Margherita had told him, trying to remember it all, keep the instructions in order, but there was so much to be done.

"The comb is on the bread plate."

"Bene. We are also going to need willow bark." He looked up and saw the stricken look on Anita's face. Immediately he was on his feet, his large and calloused hands holding his wife tenderly to his chest. "Do not worry, mi amore, it is easily enough procured from a dottore…"

"I know, but that is what worries me, that we must go to a dottore for it. What if they learn why we need it? What if they insist on seeing the patient themselves? What if they come here and recognize her and tell the soldiers…"

"Willow bark is a common enough medicine," he countered, quieting her fears, "Used for lots of reasons, not just for people who have been burned in a fire. Do not worry, no dottore is going to harass me about why I would need willow bark. They will be happy enough to make such an easy sale." He pressed a kiss to her forehead before moving towards the door.

"You… you are going? Now? But what if the soldiers are out there on patrol? What if they see you? What if they are watching all the dottores? What if the dottores are watching all their customers and informing on the patients, or…" She had chased after him, grabbing his arm, desperate to keep him safe beside her.

"Enough, Anita," Savio turned back to silence her with a kiss, one of his hands reaching behind to cup her head and keep her in place. When she seemed calmer, he broke it off, but pressed their foreheads together as he answered. "Still your tongue. Do not worry about matters we cannot control; there is enough right there in your hands to worry you," he pointed his chin at Margherita. When it looked like Anita was not yet soothed, he compromised a bit, "I tell you what, I will go to another village, or into Roma, and speak with a dottore who does not know Madonna Margherita or me. It may take me a while, even all day, so do not worry if I'm not back right away. I will return, intesi? But I'm going to have to be very careful. I do not want to risk anyone finding out she is alive." He didn't add the uncertainty he felt, that the woman would not be able to live through her injuries; as he just told Anita, there was more than enough for them to worry about.

Anita watched her husband pick up what little money they had, wrap a cloak around his shoulders, and step out into the world. She tried not to worry, she honestly did, about his safety or Margherita's injuries. But every moment Savio was gone, she spent at the side of her former landlady, doing all the praying her knees could endure.


	3. Cura te Ipsum (Physician, Heal Thyself)

**Chapter Three: Cura te Ipsum (Physician, Heal Thyself)**

Time passed.

Day and night and day and night…

It was time, a lot of time, more time than she could track. And that was what alarmed her.

Margherita wasn't concerned over how much time had passed, but over her inability to measure it. She laid there, unable to clear her vision, or form coherent words, or even control the movement of her limbs—yet most importantly, she couldn't focus her mind. That, more than anything, warned her that she was in trouble. A lot of trouble.

Though holding on to that understanding kept eluding her grasp. She felt like she was swimming in water, deep water, and her skirts were growing heavier and heavier by the moment, weighing her down, dragging her repeatedly beneath the surface. Every time she would struggle, flail her arms and scream her frustration, and her body would rise and her face would break through the surface of the water. Then she could see, then she could know, then she could speak, but only for a moment. She never quite had the time to catalogue her symptoms, or diagnose the root cause, or formulate a remedy. The water would grip her without hands, wrap her without limbs, drag her under without force, and with barely a ripple on the surface to mark she had ever been there.

And in her mind, all that remained, was the fear and the dread.

Someone pressed a cup to her lips and she tried to drink the heady elixir, reflexively swallowing. But she choked, the liquid pooling in the back of her mouth. For a moment Margherita forgot that her throat had been half-crushed, that that was the reason why she couldn't swallow, and instead thought she was drowning in that darkly unseen water.

She was drowning, yet strangely the thought did not scare her. She supposed it was because she knew; it was time. She was too tired, had suffered too much, and would not recover. Despite all the efforts of her loved ones, of her friends, she was still going to die. She was going to fade quietly away, passing with hardly a whimper, too weak to continue.

The strong elixir swamped her mind as the imagined water had, the medicine easing away the anxieties, leaving her thoughts almost completely blank. Yet she dreamed.

…she was running, in fear for her life. Some evil creature out of myth or legend was chasing her, a living fire, hungering for her flesh. Tentacles lashed out, striking her face, her arm, setting her clothing on fire. Then she saw her dog, Knight. He spoke to her, a fact that, while trapped within her dream, she did not find strange or unusual. He told her he could put out the fire consuming her, and blood began spilling from his body, making a shallow pool at his feet. She fell into it, crying as she did so; Knight was dead, he had died saving her from the soldiers, just as he was dying now while saving her from the nightmarish fire. And the pool of blood, the deep dark red that saved her from the fire, was now her enemy, sucking her deeper and drowning her…

* * *

A stranger was standing near the side of the road. He was deep beneath the boughs of a tree, one hand resting on the trunk as if resting on the shoulder of an old friend. His clothing was well-made, tailored to fit his frame, but relaxed enough to allow ease movement, with extra furls and flutters to confuse his shape if need be. The color was an mild white, not so bright that it attracted attention, and dull enough to slip from the eyes and pass into shadow. He didn't move, standing so still in the early twilight that he almost disappeared, blending against the trunk of the tree.

Anita saw him, however, hyper-aware as she was these past few days, always on her guard against the constant fear of discovery. Though she couldn't see his face, she could tell from the tilt of his hood that he was gazing upwards, up the hill and towards the burned out husk that was once a home. She did not know who this stranger was, where he had come from, what his intensions were… but whoever he was, Anita was sure he was interested in Margherita Campi.

She turned her face away, her steps hurrying as she pretended not to notice him. She didn't want to have anything to do with any stranger—friend or foe—if he was looking for her former landlady. Her mind was full to overflowing already with worries about the trouble she and her husband would be in if anyone found out Margherita was not only alive, but hiding in their home. She hugged her packages to her bosom and started walking once more.

So far she and Savio had successfully kept anyone from discovering Margherita, but the stress and anxiety was beginning to show. Anita's routine was off, as was evident this evening with her hasty and last minute trip to the butcher before he closed his shop for the day; she usually did her shopping first thing in the morning, and she was sure the villagers were already gossiping about her sudden change in behavior. Savio, too, was acting differently. He was often absent for great lengths of time, spending most of his days ranging far and wide, always to different dottores, always trying to find some new medicine that might help Margherita recover. And Anita could feel her nerves were beginning to fray, having to stay near her friend lest Margherita need her, while worrying and wondering about Savio, if he had been discovered, if Borgia soldiers were torturing him for information regarding Margherita's whereabouts, if those soldiers were even now heading to her home, their footfalls coming up behind her, trembling the ground beneath her slippers…

A hand touched her elbow, and she made a squeaking noise as she jumped and spun around, her arms convulsing, jostling her packages and sending them tumbling out of her grip. "Scusa, Madonna," a male voice rumbled like velvet, coming from beneath a deep hood, even as a pair of hands flashed with lightning reflexes and deftly caught the wayward packages. Immediately she realized it was the stranger she had seen earlier, standing before her now. She chastised herself for having pushed him out of her mind, which in turn allowed him to sneak up on her like this. Bravely she fought back the trembling as he carefully placed one of the packages back in her arms.

"I am truly sorry; I did not mean to startle you. It is only that," he paused, and his face came a little further out from within the shadows of his hood, "I was wondering if you could answer a question or two I have."

She dropped her gaze from those light brown eyes that appeared to shine with their own light, feeling as if she could hold no secrets from them. "No, Messer, I… I cannot help you. I know nothing of the woman you are looking for," she answered, already turning away, forgetting he was holding one of her packages.

"I did not say I was looking for anyone," the voice called to her, the tone slightly dangerous.

Anita immediately stopped, squeezing her eyes shut, cursing her slow wits and loose tongue. She should run, she knew she should run, but the only place she could run to would be her home, her home where they were hiding Margherita, leading the stranger directly to her friend and whatever evil purposes he might intend. She was shaking, she was visibly shaking as she stood there, waiting for judgment, expecting the stranger to call her to task for harboring the fugitive. Tears were already in her eyes by the time the stranger's steps brought him up next to her on the road. He didn't speak right away, and she couldn't stop herself from peeking at him, sending the tears falling down her cheeks. Seeing him simply standing there, neither moving nor speaking to her, she felt the need to whisper a plea into the early dusk. "Mercy, Messer, mercy, please. Please do not turn us in. We had to; she and her husband had been so good to us, we had to help her."

"Madonna," the stranger began, but stopped just as quickly to glance up and down the path. He must have thought better of continuing their conversation on the roadside, as in the next moment he took her elbow and motioned her to continue with the package he was still holding. "Madonna, let us go somewhere more private. I think you have the wrong idea about me. And it would be best if we talked about this someplace where we won't be accidentally overheard."

Anita swallowed, fearful and hopeful at the same time, and far too scared to resist his urgings. With no other options, and nowhere else to go, she led the stranger down the path towards her home.

* * *

Margherita dreamt. She knew it was a dream, because Gavino was there, holding their son. They were talking to her, but she couldn't understand what they were saying. And the harder she tried to listen, the less distinct they became. Frustrated, she tried to get closer to them, her hands reaching for them, her footsteps growing faster and faster. Her son and husband, however, remained out of her grasp, somehow staying ahead of her without running or moving themselves. At last she gave up trying to reach them and simply stood there, drinking in the sight of them as if the vision were nourishment. She studied their faces, sharp and clear in her dream, her expressions of love and longing mirrored on their features, and a deep peace fell over her.

Suddenly, as if a blanket had been lifted, or wool had been plucked from her ears, she could hear what they were saying. She was unable to make out any individual words, but she knew the meaning. She had to leave them. She had to go back, to wake up, to continue to live; there was more work for her to finish before she could find her rest with them. She didn't want to leave—her only desire to be there and love them—but she knew they were right. She was still alive; she could not stay. And she had to find a way to survive her injuries and continue her life until it truly was, at long last, her time to rejoin them.

Her heart breaking all over again, she turned away from the sight of them and back towards the ocean that had drowned her.

* * *

The stranger was silent while Anita put her household in order. He stood out of the way, blending into a shadowy corner, observant of every detail. Anita tried not to look at him, tried harder not to think of him, but his silence was almost deafening, and his consideration made him conspicuous. He had yet to tell her who he was, or what his intensions were, and the longer it was taking to learn these things, the more her hands shook.

A pitcher half-slipped from her grip, fell three inches to land on the table, and wobbled dangerously before she could use her hands to steady it. It made enough noise, however, to alert one of the other occupants of the house. "Anita?" Savio called from the back room, "Mi amore, is that you?"

The stranger seemed to straighten up taller when Savio appeared in the doorway, but the angle was wrong for him to see past the large man into the other room. As Savio's eyes fell on him, as those eyes narrowed with dangerous intent, as Savio reached out to take hold of his wife and move her behind him—and in front of the door leading to the other room, of course—the stranger tried his best to placate him.

"Salute, Messer," he bowed, flourishing a short cape, laying on the charm as thick as he dared, "Excuse me for inviting myself into your home. I know, it was very rude of me, and I humbly offer my apologies." He straightened up, and in doing so he swept off his hood and revealed his face. "It is only that I am here, in this part of the countryside, looking for a friend of mine. I, er, saw your wife—Anita, is that your name?—I saw her along the road just down the hill, and she seemed as if she might know something of what had happened. I thought, considering how sensitive the topic of conversation was going to be, it might be best if we spoke in private, so I invited myself to come home with her. Again, I hope you will pardon the intrusion, but it is very important to me to find out what has happened to my friend. Her name is Margherita Campi. She used to live in that house on the hill above us, the house that has been burned to the ground, recently if I'm not mistaken." As his speech continued, his tone grew serious, the charm giving way to intensity, as he tried to convey his honesty. He dropped all subterfuge, threw aside all attempts at persuasion, and basically let his guard down first, hoping the husband would trust him and follow suit.

Savio looked at him closely. He had remained closed-mouthed while the stranger talked, and continued to do so for several moments after he finished. Savio kept Anita behind him, almost sandwiched between himself and the door, her fingers clawing into his shoulders as she peeked at the stranger. Whatever he was thinking, whatever options he was weighing, was as much a mystery as the mysterious stranger. And when he finally spoke, it was to ask a surprising question, "You are the Assassino?"

"Savio!" Anita gasped, her fingers tightening painfully.

The stranger, however, was not affronted by the bluntness or rudeness of the inquiry. He smiled a little and inclined his head. "Si. Allow me to introduce myself, Savio. I am Ezio Auditore da Firenze. Now, may I ask, how did you know I am an Assassin?"

Savio let out the breath he had been holding, feeling suddenly weak in his knees, but he knew they had nothing to fear from this man. He patted one of Anita's hands, pried it off his bruised shoulder and, still holding the hand, led her over to the table. "It was Madonna Margherita," he admitted, beginning his explanation as he poured his wife a cup of wine. He gestured with the pitcher, but Ezio declined with a wave of his hand. Savio set the pitcher back on the table, made sure his wife took a healthy swallow, before he continued, "She sometimes talks. I don't think she is aware she is speaking, or what she is speaking about. It is like she is dreaming, only sometimes her eyes are open, sometimes they are closed. But when she dreams, she speaks. She has mentioned an Assassin once or twice, by the name of Ezio. And your manner, Messer Auditore, is one of a confident man, an accomplished man, a capable man. You are one who knows of hard deeds, and hard decisions. Finally," he paused again to sigh, scrubbing at the back of his neck, "Finally, I'm afraid the whole village knows why the Borgia came to her home last week. They were looking for a pair of Assassini. They were looking for you."

"But instead they found Margherita?"

It wasn't exactly a question, but Savio nodded in answer.

"Yet you speak of her in the present tense. Can I safely assume that she… that Margherita… lives?" he pressed, needing confirmation, unable to keep the hopeful tone out of his voice. He had been so fearful since he'd first spied the burned-out dwelling, that somehow the Borgia had learned of his presence there, that her assisting him had triggered a retaliation, that she had suffered—died?—because of him. And Savio's explanation just now seemed to confirm those fears. But if she were only in hiding, no doubt in that back room Savio was protecting, then perhaps the weight of guilt could lift from his shoulders, just this once. She had lost her house, her home, but that was only a building, a bit of shelter easily replaced. And he had come here with the intention of inviting her to Isola Tiberina, of joining the Brotherhood, or at least of assisting with tending the wounded—something he was sure there would be plenty of in the coming months. He had come to give her a new life, a new purpose. And surely, now that there was nothing more tying her here, she would accept his offer.

He saw Savio and Anita exchange a look, and that ball of lead returned to weigh heavily in his gut. "Si," the husband answered, the tone of his voice countered the implied hopefulness that should have been a confirmation. "At least, she lives at this moment, though I cannot say for how much longer she will live. She is very badly hurt."

"Tell me what happened. All of it. Start at the beginning," Ezio stated, his voice deep and commanding, the voice of a leader of men.

Savio took a deep breath before he began, the tone heavy with sadness and unending endurance. "It was late one night, over a week ago. I woke up when I heard the soldiers' horses on the road, and I cracked open the door just far enough to see what was happening. I stayed in the shadows, so they didn't see me, but the moon was bright enough, I could see them. They went up to Madonna Margherita's house and entered without waiting for her to open the door. They stayed there for some time. I do not know what they did while they were in there, but before they left, a fire had already consumed half the house. Afterwards, they rode into the village and entered the tavern.

"They hadn't stationed a guard or a lookout," he continued with this story, and Ezio hardly dared to breathe, much less interrupt him, "So I made my way up the hill towards the house, to see if… Well, I don't know…" Savio paused to shrug, a bit embarrassed, looking down at his wife and petting her hair, "Messer Gavino and Madonna Margherita have been so good to us, I suppose I felt that I owed them—that I should at least check, just in case, just to be sure. And when I got close, I heard Madonna Margherita scream. I ran the last few yards and was just in time to see her jump through a window. She was badly burned, covered in blood. I believe the soldiers meant for her to burn to death in her home, but she found a way to escape," he looked back up at Ezio, "She found a way to survive. And I wanted to help her, I wanted her to stay alive. So I brought her here. We have kept her safe in our home, tried to tend her wounds as best we can, and have let everyone else believe she died in the fire."

Too easily Ezio could picture the scene… the heat of the flames… the crash as the window was broken… Margherita's form bloodied and burned… "Will she…?" he began, but could not find the words to finish.

"You should see for yourself," Savio offered, and motioned for Ezio to follow him. The two men walked to the back of the house, to that other door, and at long last Ezio was allowed passage. Behind the previously guarded door was a small bedchamber, the bed taking up most of the room, but warm and cozy despite the sparse existence. Ezio hardly noticed the furnishings, however, his eyes on the bed—or more succinctly, on a very small form lying on the bed. She was so still and silent, she might very well already be dead.

Ezio stopped in the doorway. He was a jaded man in most respects; he had seen wounds and maiming and death from every type of weapon or accident. He had seen both loved ones and strangers suffer these injuries. Yet nothing in his experience had prepared him to see what was lying there. A young woman, already having suffered enough for ten lifetimes, was being made to suffer more. Half her face and her upper arm were swathed in bandages, the linen discolored by puss and blood and—Dio Mio!—he tried not to think of what else. Dark circles ringed the flesh around her eyes, and her cheeks were sunken and hollow from the lack of nutrition. Yet the chest stubbornly rose and fell with each breath, and the left hand clung to the covers, as if gripping the fabric would help increase the form's strength and endurance.

"She sleeps most of the time," Savio was explaining, the words almost washing over Ezio unheeded. "That first night she woke up, and was able to give us instructions on how to care for her injuries. But she hasn't woken again since. Mostly she mumbles, talking to Messer Gavino or their son. Once she called for Knight; that was their dog. Then she began to cry." Savio stopped, the emotion in his voice choking the words. He had to take several deep breaths before he could continue. "The dog died in the fire," he added by way of explanation.

When Ezio finally did speak, his voice was deep and terrible in its intensity. "It was a group of Borgia soldiers that did this to her? Because of me?"

Savio nodded, more than a little in awe of the ire in his voice. "Si," he added when he realized Ezio couldn't hear him nod. He hung back in the doorway and watched as the Assassin approached the bed.

Ezio didn't know what to do, or what he could do. He reached Margherita's injured right side and sat on the bed, looking more closely at her now that he was nearer. Carefully he peeled away the bandages to better examine the extent of her injuries. It looked like hot irons had branded her face; there were three wide swathes falling across her cheek and down to her neck. There were other burns on her face and arm that he recognized as being caused by fire, the blisters large and full of puss or blood. There was a wound in her shoulder, similar to the wound she had tended in his shoulder, a clean puncture wound caused by some sort of projectile. Her neck was discolored, showing old bruising from what he supposed could be strangulation. And, as if to add insult to injury, there were several cuts and bruises on her face, on the burned and branded side, as if something hard had struck her repeatedly, like a fist with a heavy ring.

All these injuries he noted coldly, dispassionately, as if assessing the injuries of another Assassin after a battle. Yet when he looked into the eyes, the deep blue eyes that were glassy and unseeing though open, he only saw Margherita, the young widow who had begged him to avenge her late husband and son. The young woman who had tended him without asking for payment other than her right to vengeance. She lay there, hovering somewhere between life and death, and he had to find a reason for her to live. He set the bandages back in place over her burns, took her hand in his, and leaned down to her ear.

"Margherita," he whispered, "Margherita, if you can hear me, listen. Listen to me and remember what I say." His voice dropped so low after that that Savio couldn't hear what he said, not that he tried to listen. Then the Assassin straightened, his expression somber and dark, and added almost like an epithet, "Cura te ipsum.

"Madonna Margherita saved my life," Ezio continued softly, pulling his hood back up though not yet turning around. "It is a debt I had come here hoping to repay, but now I see that my debt to her has been compounded ten fold, and I can no longer afford it. I am, however, also indebted to you and your wife for taking care of her."

"She and Messer Gavino were our landlords," Savio offered by way of explanation. "They were good people. It is our privilege to shelter her."

Ezio turned, impressed by the man's loyalty. The next moment he smiled a little, softening his eyes and placing a hand on the man's shoulder. "Still, Savio, I would say grazie for the risk you and your wife are taking. And I would ask, so long as the risk stays minimal, that you continue to care for Margherita, as you have been doing. And if she… when she recovers, remind her that I will be waiting for her. She will know where to find me."

"You… you are staying here? In Roma?"

"Si," Ezio nodded, "I have pledged myself against the Borgia—myself and my allies and every Assassino who joins me—and we will succeed. You have my word, Savio; life in Roma will begin to improve. And soon."

Savio stared at him a moment, as if he too could look into a man's soul and know his true nature, before he nodded, "I believe you, Messer."

Ezio put out his hand, and when the other man took it, Savio was surprised to find a purse weighing down his hand. "Messer?"

"No doubt the medicine to take care of Margherita has been expensive, and there will continue to be more expenses before she recovers fully. Take the coin to cover the cost. You and your wife are also good people, as you described Gavino and Margherita, and your hard work and loyalty deserve recognition."

Savio stared at the purse in his hand, feeling its weight, unsure of what to do. Everything he did for Margherita had been out of loyalty, without expectation of payment, ever. "Messer, grazie, but no…"

"I insist," Ezio commanded, moving away from him and around the table where Anita still sat. She looked up as he crossed her field of view, but he didn't pause. He reached the door and turned the latch, "I do not like it when my offers are refused."

"Messer," Savio called one last time, and Ezio paused in the doorway, his indistinct shape silhouetted by the evening beyond. Desperately Savio searched for something to say, unsure of why he had tried to stop the Assassin, and spoke the first words that came to mind, "What did you say to her?"

Ezio didn't turn around, but he did look over his shoulder at the man standing there, the purse in his hands. There was a look of such fierce loyalty in his features that Ezio was moved to wonder what kind of woman inspired so strong of an emotion. Then again, he himself had risked exposure to track her down, to come here tonight, to learn of her fate. He remembered how cool Margherita's skin was as he held her hand, and how those fingers tightened minimally in response to his words. "I told her what there was to live for."

Ezio stepped outside and disappeared into the night.

Savio stood still for several moments after the Assassin left, wondering at his words. He wished he knew what Ezio had said, so he could repeat to Margherita what it was she had to live for, but the Assassin was gone.

Yet the message of hope did remain.

* * *

She thought that she must be awake this time, that her eyes must be open, that this was real and not a dream. All because she saw Savio come through the doorway. So far only the dead had entered her dreams: Gavino, their bambino, Knight, even her father…

It was different this time, seeing Savio, the large man's face worn with stress and care. She felt as if she wanted to say something to him, but she couldn't quite remember what it was, something to do with burn injuries perhaps, but Savio didn't look burned to her…

Then the vision changed, and she reconsidered that she might, after all, still be dreaming. The Assassin was standing behind Savio in the doorway. Ezio Auditore. Her eyes never strayed from his features as he moved around Savio and entered the room, coming to hover close beside her. She stared at him and wondered why she was seeing him—if he truly was there and not a figment. Perhaps Ezio had come on Assassin business, possibly to end her life? Something like a mercy killing, like putting down a horse that had broken its leg, her body too badly injured to recover, her soul lingering through a long and painful death. Si, that would be a mercy. She did not feel fear as he floated before her, so close she could feel the warmth of his body.

Now, that was odd, she thought to herself. Always, in all her other dreams, she had never felt anything physical. Emotional, yes, but not physical. This time, however, it was the opposite—all emotion was gone, but she could FEEL the bandages catch and tug as he pried them away to look at her wounds. She could FEEL the strength in his hand as he took hers, making her want to respond in kind. She could FEEL his breath fanning her ear as he loomed in so close she could no longer keep her eyes on him.

"Margherita," he whispered, and she was sure this was no dream, "Margherita, if you can hear me, listen. Listen to me and remember what I say." His voice dropped even lower, to a depth she more felt than heard, yet she could understand every single word. "You are strong, Margherita. You are strong and you can live through this. That is what I want you to do—live. Live, Margherita, but not for revenge. Live, if only to spite the men who tried to kill you. Live, to be proof of their impotence, that they were unable even to kill one young woman. Live, and then come join us on the Isola Tiberina. I will be expecting you…"

She sighed, suddenly finding herself wanting to live. She tried to answer, to tell him to expect her soon, but he had left. It was as if he had never been there, had never been anything more than another vision, another dream. As ethereal and insubstantial as Gavino or Knight.

Yet just as effective, because now she would live. She took in a breath, deeper than she had before, and gave in to a slight cough. Her lungs ached when she breathed, but she made herself inhale deeply again, to force the air into her lungs, and to find the strength to refill them again and again. She was not going to die, she was not going to flicker out like a small candle flame puffed by an errant draft.

She was going to LIVE!

* * *

Anita was in the kitchen, working on making bread, her hands going through the motions on their own, while her thoughts drifted across other matters. The past couple of months had been filled to overflowing with events, and her mind sometimes struggled to take in all that had happened. As she shaped the loaf, she lingered on the happiest moment of the recent months: the moment when she had discovered that she was with child.

She blushed, an embarrassed smile pulling at her lips, remembering how she had been so distracted with everything else, that she hadn't even noticed the changes in her own body. But Margherita had. Even though she was scarred and weakened by her own trauma, Margherita had noticed the changes coming over her friend and had been the first to say something. And as soon as she heard those words, Anita knew it was true. Then the two women had held each other and laughed until they cried. They were still sobbing joyfully when Savio came home, more than a bit confused when he found them crying in each other's arms. The father-to-be quickly recovered upon hearing the news, however, and gave up trying to understand why women were so emotional to go and boast to his friends and neighbors.

Anita looked up when the bedchamber door opened, pulling her thoughts back to the present. Margherita came out of the other room, her steps slow and careful yet determined and strong. Anita didn't go and help the other woman, knowing that Margherita would only insist that she do things for herself, in an attempt to regain her strength. Instead she continued her work of shaping the loaves of bread, but she did watch Margherita closely until the woman sat down at the table. "Buon giorno, Madonna Margherita," she said, her voice cheerful. It was not affected, like most people will do around someone who is sick. She honestly was cheerful a lot now, no doubt due to the coming baby. "Did you sleep well?"

In answer the other woman gave a single nod, and oddly formal movement more of a bow than a nod, her face and neck still stiff with their scars.

"Would you care for something to eat?" she gestured to the nearby hearth where a kettle was keeping warm, a simple yet hearty porridge inside.

Margherita politely surveyed the contents. The porridge was viscous and fortified with nuts and berries, the aroma warm and appealing in any other situation. Yet the thought of trying to swallow anything thicker than tea or tougher than wine-soaked bread destroyed any appetite she may have had. "No, grazie," she managed to answer, her voice deep and dusty, like autumn leaves rustling in the wind. She grimaced only a little; despite all the healing her body had gone through, speaking had remained difficult, not only inhibited by the scars on her face, but also strangled by the lingering pains in her throat. She didn't believe she would ever be able to speak normally again. She did, however, force herself to continue to try, if only to test the limits of her abilities.

Anita offered a brave little smile, understanding and encouragement in her expression, and returned to her work. That was perhaps the greatest change that had come over Anita, all her flightiness and anxieties had slipped away when she learned the news, as if the coming baby was somehow erasing all her fears and doubts. Margherita watched her in silence for a few moments, her mind slipping back through time to when she performed her own household and wifely duties, and how happy and content she had once been. A moment of envy stole into her heart, but she forced it away, instead letting herself feel happy for the other woman.

Both their thoughts were interrupted by voices calling to each other outside. The first voice Margherita heard was masculine, and though slightly familiar she couldn't place him right away. Then she recognized Savio's voice answering the first, and she realized he was speaking to one of his neighbors. She and Anita exchanged a look, and Margherita braced her hands on the table in preparation for standing up and retreating to the other room. They were still very wary of letting anyone learn that she had survived the fire, not because the didn't trust the other villagers, but because no one—especially Margherita—wanted to place their friends in danger. She was able to relax back onto her seat when, while listening to their conversation, she heard Savio's voice come closer while the other remained distant.

"And how long is it now before Anita makes you a father?"

Savio's chuckle was deep, sounding through the door; he must be just outside. "Five more months. Right now, she has me running out at all times of the day to fetch her the strangest things. Yesterday she had to have figs. Today, it is olives."

The neighbor laughed. "Aren't all women the same? I remember my wife kept getting up in the middle of the night to bake bread. Oh, speaking of bossy wives, that reminds me of something; tell her Paola still wishes to come over, just to check on how she is doing."

"I will let her know, but Anita has been very… skittish lately," Savio hedged, as if trying to find a way around the offer.

"Oh, of course, of course," the neighbor agreed, "But my wife made me promise to make the offer again. She simply wants to make sure everything is going well. Besides, she is the best midwife in the village," he said with pride in his voice, but just as quickly it changed to regret, "I mean, that is, she's the only midwife in the village since… well, since the fire." The neighbor paused, and Margherita imagined the man looking up the hill to her ruined home. "So tragic, everything that happened to that poor family. At least Messer Gavino and his family are all together once more, in death."

"Si," Savio's voice answered after a moment's hesitation. "Scusa, but I must go in now. I will speak with you later."

Anita had looked up at Margherita when her death was mentioned, but she gave no sign that anything of Savio's conversation had upset her. Instead she slowly began pushing herself to her feet, preparing to greet the man as he entered his home.

Savio opened the door, a couple of packages tucked under one arm and his cloak. He smiled as he closed the door behind him, a forced brightness that contrasted his earlier conversation. Neither woman let on that they had overheard anything, for which he was grateful. "Anita, Madonna Margherita, I am sorry to have been gone all night, but at least I made it home by noon, eh? This was a little harder to come by than I anticipated," he gestured with the packages.

"But you were successful?" Anita asked, sensing Margherita's question and asking for her to spare her voice.

"Si, more or less" he answered, setting the parcels on the table and taking out his own knife to cut the string holding one of them closed. "I am sorry, Madonna. I searched all over Roma, but I could not find a mask like you described. I simply do not know where to buy such things. But I think I found something that might work," he finished, a hopeful lilt to his voice as he finished opening the first package. He delved inside, his thick fingers coming out with a dark cloth draped between them.

Margherita held out her hands, and Savio obediently laid the material on them. She hefted the scarf for a moment, her quick fingers judging its weight and thickness and texture. Next, she lifted it up to the window, a bright square of sunlight in the small home, and her eyes scrutinized the fabric's lack of transparency. When she lowered it and turned back to Savio, the formal bow-like nod she offered was accented by a lopsided smile, slight but satisfied.

Savio visibly looked relieved. "I am glad you approve, Madonna," he said, sitting down heavily at the table. Stifling a yawn, he continued, "I'll admit it; I do not even pretend to understand what half of these items are for, these strange errands you've sent me on. But I am glad the last of them are over. They, er," he looked up at her, his bloodshot eyes tired and hopeful, "This was the last errand, wasn't it?"

She gave her strange nod again.

"Bene," he sighed, shoulders slumping as he let his eyes close for a moment. He heard a soft noise, and a warm and mouthwatering smell assailed his nostrils. When he opened his eyes, it was as if a bowl of porridge had magically appeared before him on the table. "Anita, how did you know I would be so hungry. Mi amore, you are too good a woman for me. Grazie." He all but dove into the bowl of porridge.

Anita's hands were still full of bread dough when she and Margherita exchanged a look, and Margherita winked.

"So," Savio, as oblivious of the exchange as he had been of who actually brought him the food, continued to question as he ate, "What is next for you, eh? I know you plan to leave us." Realizing how his words might sound, he paused long enough to swallow and reach out for her hand, "Scusa, but I do not want you to think, Madonna Margherita, that I am eager to see you go. I want you to stay. You have been a good landlady to me, and a good dottore to Anita, and though I know you cannot go back to your home, I wish you could stay and see the baby safely delivered."

She patted the back of his hand with her other hand, the cloth now draped over her forearm, and shook her head once. "I must. For safety. Yours. Anita's."

"Si, si, I know that," he grunted, letting go of her to wave away the danger like he would a pesky fly, "But I am not happy about it." He shoveled another spoonful into his mouth, his grumpiness evident in his manner.

Margherita gave her awkward little half-smile and reached down to kiss his cheek in a sisterly fashion. "Grazie, Savio, for all… I will repay… someday…" Her voice kept trailing away almost into nothing at the end of every sentence, every breath. It frustrated her, challenged her, and more than anything it made her determined to recover. Someday.

Savio looked up at her, perhaps a little sadly, and shook his head. "I told you, Madonna Margherita, you owe us nothing. The…" he stopped himself before saying the word 'Assassin,' always fearful that somehow saying that mysterious word would alert the Borgia to their involvement. He cleared his throat and started again. "Er, your friend left enough coin to see to all your needs. In fact, there is some left over; you should take it, to help you get started in your new life." He nodded his chin over to the pouch tucked in behind some ewers on the shelf.

Margherita shook her head, not bothering to follow his gesture. They had told her how Ezio had come by to learn of her fate, and left the money behind to pay for her room and board and medicines. After all these months, there wasn't much left; but she wanted them to keep the money in case she wasn't able to come back and repay them for everything they had done for her. Savio understood why she had to decline, and she understood why he had to make the offer.

"Will you leave today?"

She nodded once, very carefully. The slight movement remained uncomfortable, stretching her cheek and neck where the skin was scarred. But her range of motion was improving, the scars healing and lessening thanks to one of the many little errands she had sent Savio on—a salve that softened the inflexibility of scar tissue.

"Where will you go? To your… friend?" Savio pressed, still avoiding the word 'Assassino,' "He said you would know where to find him."

She thought about it, had thought about it, had given it very careful and meaningful consideration. Isola Tiberina. She didn't know why, or how, but she knew that's where she could find Ezio. But she was not sure going to him would fit in with her plans. And she had very specific plans.

The silence began to stretch awkwardly between the friends, and Anita felt forced to find some way to change the subject. "What is in the other package?"

Savio started, having forgotten all about it. Then he smiled somewhat sheepishly and tossed her the smaller parcel. "Open it."

She had to wipe her hands off before she could open it, and when she did so, the contents confused her. "Olives?"

"You're sending me out for all sorts of odd cravings at all sorts of odd times, remember?" he prompted, reminding her of the excuse they used to explain the reasons for Savio's errands for Margherita.

She looked at the other two a moment before remembering what Savio had told their neighbor about her craving olives that morning. He gave a little smile and a shrug, Anita gave a timid giggle, and the two began laughing openly, the strain and anxiety of the past few months bleeding away. Margherita smiled, too, a full smile, even though it pained her.

"At least these are fresh," Anita agreed, popping an olive into her mouth, humming over the sharp taste. "And, I suppose I should see Paola soon, too."

"Would be best," Margherita agreed, catching the olive Anita threw to her. "Very good midwife… You… and babe… Paola…" Again her voice died away, not even reaching the end of her sentence. To hide her frustration, she put the olive in her mouth, and began to chew. The burst of juice was a pleasant surprise, but she had forgotten about the pit. She almost choked on it before she managed to spit the lump back into her hand. She tried swallowing what remained in her mouth, but her throat was still wary of the pit and threatened another bout of coughing and choking. Not wishing to embarrass herself further in front of her friends, she made to leave. "Scusa," her lips form the word, but there was no sound to support it. In an awkward embarrassment, she gave up and retreated into the bedchamber, bringing her veil with her.

When she had closed the door, Savio turned to Anita. "I know she is still determined to leave, but won't she tell you anything? Where she is going or what she will do?"

"Nothing," Anita answered, finishing shaping her last loaf before reaching for another olive. "I am worried for her, Savio."

"I am too," he admitted, his voice soft and sad. Then he took a deep breath and returned to eating his breakfast. "Bah, it is out of our hands, Anita, mi amore. Madonna Margherita Campi is dead. Though it is painful, we all know she cannot stay. She must leave, leave and begin a new life, whatever and wherever that may be."

"But…" a bit of the old Anita was creeping back, the anxious and nervous Anita. "But… what kind of a life can a scarred young woman make for herself? Without the help of family? Without friends?"

"I do not know," he admitted, "But she knows. She has a plan. Or she wouldn't have sent me out to pick up all those odd items…"

His words were interrupted when the door opened, and the two looked up as Margherita reentered the main room of the house. Her appearance, as strange as it was to them, also confirmed Savio's words—she did have a plan.

She stood in the doorway, a bit anxious herself over their opinions, and more than a little fearful whether or not her plan would work. She was covered from head to foot in a heavy, dark coat that fastened securely in the front. Long sleeves covered her arms, and her hands were concealed within black gloves. A hood was attached to the coat, and had been pulled up to cover her hair. A wide brimmed hat secured the hood in place, casting her features into shadow. Between this and the new veil wrapped around her face, the only part of Margherita that could be seen were her eyes. To complete the outfit she wore a pair of black boots, the augmented heels adding height to her otherwise smaller stature. The costume—the standard dress worn by dottores—effectively covered her disfigurement as well as her gender. She had hoped, with the help of this disguise and her voice now deepened by her injury, that she could pass herself off as a man, as a dottore.

And, if the expression of shock deeply etched into her friend's features was anything to go by, she knew she could succeed.

The two stared at her and, for a moment, Savio feared that somehow a strange dottore had managed to sneak into their home before he realized it was Margherita. Yet before he could find anything disapproving to say—imagine a woman dressing herself like a man—Anita came around to give her a hug. "It is perfect," she whispered, her voice choked by tears.

And that effectively ended any argument he might have made, before he could have made it. He sighed and mentally shook his head; he supposed he could allow, given her scarring and her situation and her knowledge of medicine, it would undoubtedly seem like the only option available to her. Yet it made his skin crawl, seeing how she so easily fit into the disguise. "Well," said Savio, setting aside his misgivings and standing up. "I am very tired, but I will see you off, Madonna Margherita. I could even borrow a cart and take you…"

He stopped when she shook her head and placed a hand on his arm. "No, Savio. Quicker is better…" Her words yet again dribbled to a stop. Ignoring the awkwardness, she took a final look at them, at both of them standing side by side, Anita's hand on her arm as her hand lay on Savio's, her only two friends in the world, ones who had risked their lives to help her, shelter her, heal her. And she knew the only way she could ever repay that debt, was to leave before she brought them trouble. Sensing the tears about to fall, she gave them a single nod. "Addio." She let go of Savio's arm, felt Anita's hand fall away, and turned to walk through the door.

The couple stood in the doorway and watched her depart, slipping away from the house through the fields where it would be less likely she would be noticed by anyone. They continued to watch even after she was out of sight, holding each other and wondering if they would ever know what had become of Margherita Campi, the first lady dottore of Roma.


	4. Tacitus

**Chapter Four: Tacitus**

Mercenary Camp Outside Roma: 1503

She was past feeling. If there was anything beyond exhaustion, any point where one could grow too unsteady to stumble, too weak to fall, too fatigued to sleep—she had passed that point hours ago.

She had been working for longer than she could keep track. More than a day, certainly. Occasionally she had noticed the shadows moving in her peripheral vision, crawling across the ground behind her to fade into night, and then be reborn on the other side once morning came. Time was passing, but she could hardly afford to take notice.

All her attention, all her concentration, was focused on the never ending stream of bodies that had been laid out before her. Limbs severed or maimed. Wounds from arrow or blade. Burns from fire and pitch. It seemed to her, no matter how hard she worked, for however long it had been—days?—she could not make a dent in the river of flesh and blood flowing beneath her surgical tools.

Yet she did not work alone.

Two other dottores worked beside her, with her, all three of them moving in a well-rehearsed, and well practiced, dance of medicine. They were so in tune with each other, so experienced with each other's techniques and skills, that she rarely had to speak a word. Thankfully so, as after three years her voice had recovered no more than to allow for a sharp bark of sound like a deep cough, or an airy sigh like the wind through fallen leaves.

She was just stitching closed a chest wound, a deep gash caused by some sort of heavy blade, when she heard one of the other dottores curse. "Cazzo!"

Immediately she was moving, leaving her patient on the table—he would keep for now—to go to where the other dottore was standing, his face reddening beneath his hood, one hand buried in a man's leg. "I nicked the vessel, taking out the arrow."

She didn't need the explanation, but she knew he felt better giving it. She leaned across from the other side of the table, tilting her head stiffly, to get a closer view. She grabbed a spare strip of linen and, at an unspoken signal between them, the dottore removed his hand. Immediately the vessel started seeping, not a strong gush, but the hole in the vein threatened to grow larger under the force of the blood.

"Cauterize?" the other dottore asked, coming up beside her.

She didn't answer; she didn't need to, her silence speaking clearly. She dabbed again and pulled her hand away, the first dottore returning to pinching the vein closed, upstream of the nick.

"Here!" the second spoke, and she held her hand out for the small iron. Not once did she remove her gaze from the wound, trusting the other to hand her the searing hot, miniature poker without burning her. And he did so, placing the handle wrapped with extra linen in her gloved hand, proving for the hundredth time or more that he was deserving of her trust.

She paused a moment, adjusting her grip, recalling to mind precisely where the hole was, then she gave a rather peculiar nod to the first dottore. He took away his hand, the small hairs on the backs of his fingers almost getting singed from the heat of the miniature poker, as she jabbed into the wound, searing the hole closed quickly and cleanly.

As quickly as she pushed the iron rod in, she removed it, not wanting to burn the flesh so much as the hole. All three of them leaned in, mindful of the poker, and held their breath was they watched and waited.

"Dio Mio, Alfonso!" the second dottore gasped, being the first to recover, the first to believe that the disaster had been diverted. "What happened?"

The first dottore, Alfonso, blushed again, "I… it was… the arrowhead wasn't too deep… I thought I could get it out… but as I pulled it free, I didn't see the vein was in the way, and…"

She nodded, only once, but the stiff gesture was full of understanding.

"Next time, leave it for Tacitus, eh? He's got the steadiest hand of all of us."

"It wasn't that deep, Augusto, I thought I could do it. And he's got three more chest wounds lined up; it would have been a while before he could have gotten to this one."

She set her hand, her free hand, on top of Alfonso's wrist. She could feel his fatigue shaking his whole arm; no wonder he had nicked the blood vessel. She caught his eye, then gestured off to the side where an extra cot was handy.

"I think he's right, amico mio," Augusto added his voice to Tacitus' gesture, "You are exhausted. Take a few minutes, or an hour, and rest. Then you can come back to work."

Alfonso shook his head, "There are too many…"

"And if your hands continue to shake like they are now? How many more veins will you slice open?" Immediately Augusto felt remorse for his harsh words, "Scusa, Alfonso, I do not mean to sound so, well, mean; I suppose I am tired as well. But you did the initial work outside with the volunteers on your own, running around all day yesterday, before joining Tacitus and I here inside the surgery. You are more exhausted than we are. Take an hour. Get some rest. Then rejoin us, eh? We'll save you something special."

Tacitus rolled her eyes, but kept her thoughts to herself, obviously.

"I suppose I should say grazie," Alfonso hummed, but then gave in to a long suppressed yawn. "Va bene. I'll lie down and rest my eyes. But only for an hour!"

Augusto looked like he might have something up his sleeve, some form of subterfuge that would allow Alfonso a bit more rest, but Tacitus gave her peculiar nod, very stiff and formal. "Si, si, one hour," he quickly agreed. Next he started making a shooing gesture with his hands, flapping them until Alfonso moved away from his former patient, allowing Tacitus to finish stitching the leg wound closed. Augusto took a moment to make sure the other dottore was relaxed and as comfortable as possible on the cot, before returning to her side. "That was a close one, eh?"

She didn't answer, she didn't have to. She finished the last stitch and gestured to a pair of volunteers standing nearby. They would move the wounded mercenary, find a cot in another tent where he could recuperate, while another pair of volunteers brought in the next patient.

The stream was never ending…

At long last, she looked up from her surgery table, waving the volunteers to come take the latest saved soul away and bring her the next. But no fresh body appeared at her table. She blinked, glancing up towards the front of the tent, but no one was there, no pair of men carrying a bloodied body, no makeshift stretcher barely able to hold its cargo, not even a breeze to move the flaps of the tent. She turned around, her hands fingering empty air, almost at a loss as to what to do next. There had been so many wounded, for so long, it almost felt unnatural for there to be nothing for her to do.

Alfonso came up to her, holding out a cup. "We are finished, Tacitus, no more wounded. And only one more mercenary died this night, an arrow piercing his heart; not even you could have saved him. Here, drink this. Then go and get some sleep. I will wake you if you are needed."

Tacitus looked around the tent to see Augusto moving among the cots near the back, checking on the more serious wounded that they had to keep an eye on. Then she turned back to Alfonso and gave her formal gesture, something more akin to a short bow than a nod of her head, her black oilskin cloak creaking with the movement. She never removed it, even when she was alone with the other dottores. They often joked about it, teasing her about her modesty, accusing her of everything from being as handsome as Adonis, to having an extra long cock—to even being a woman! She never let on that they had guessed the truth, but kept herself hidden from view as carefully as possible. Even after several years of working with them side by side, after all the close calls and life-saving moments they had shared together—the three of them building such a deep bond that they could easily work as one, as they had earlier that night—she still had no idea how they would react if they found out she truly was a woman. And their friendship, their acceptance, their camaraderie was something she refused to jeopardize.

She moved off numbly, her hand shaking slightly as she held the cup. She ate and drank away from the others as well, which gave them even more ammunition to use against her. She didn't mind, just so long as they respected her need for privacy. And so far, they had, only once questioning her request for her own tent, and that was so long ago it hardly mattered.

Tacitus ambled slowly outside the surgery, stopping a few feet from the entrance to stretch her back and breath the fresh air, though it was strained through the heavy cloth of her veil. Dio Mio, but she was tired, holding the cup closer so she could smell the heady aroma of the tea a little better. Luckily her private tent was only a row away from the surgery tent, and she would soon be able to remove her clothing without fear of discovery. The thought of a long, hot bath tickled her mind, but she shoved aside the temptation. It was enough to know that she would soon be able to take off her veil and drink the warm cup she held in her hand. And, perhaps, manage a bite or two before getting some rest.

Inside the larger tent, Alfonso didn't spare a moment wondering over Tacitus' mysterious need for privacy; he truly couldn't care. Instead he glanced over towards Augusto, who was walking around the wounded, making sure everyone was resting comfortably and that no other problems had arisen. Seeing that he wasn't needed back there, he began straightening up the surgery tables, cleaning tools, putting away supplies, organizing herbs and salves. The habit wasn't his but Tacitus', the silent dottore's need for neatness having rubbed off on both he and Augusto. He had thought it strange at first, and even unnecessary, but he did it anyway to humor the man. And, now, it had become an almost calming ritual, a quiet time to enjoy the peace after all the bodies and blood and death, a solitary time to replace the chaos with order.

Now, he rather enjoyed the compulsion to put everything in its place.

He was almost through when a commotion outside the tent caught his attention. He turned around quickly, facing the flap as it was roughly opened. "We need a dottore. Now!" a voice barked, a voice belonging to a tall man wearing the distinctly strange robes of an Assassin. He was half carrying, half dragging another, the man clearly unconscious but without any obvious sign of injury—no missing limbs or tear in his armor or even a blood trail behind them.

Alfonso suppressed the sigh and refrained from stating the obvious, stepping forward and garnering the attention of the Assassin. "Set him here," he motioned to the table Tacitus had previously been using, the cleanest one, and continued, "Tell me what you can about his injuries."

"I don't know," the man admitted, slightly irritated, the emotion showing in his short movements and shorter tone of voice. He hefted the mercenary onto the table, laying him face down, before stepping back. "I was scouting the nearby forest when I came across this man, lying in the loam. It was a good ways away from the rest of the fighting, but I'm fairly sure he is wounded and not drunk at his post. At least, he was wounded."

"Was?" Alfonso asked, most of his attention on carefully removing the mercenary's armor. He didn't want to risk aggravating any injury until he knew the precise nature of the man's wounds, so he left him facing downwards, trusting that the Assassin had a reason for laying him like that.

"Was, or is, I do not know. I found an entry wound in the back, but there is no matching wound coming out the front. The hole is too small for an arrow, and there was no shaft either in the wound, nor on the ground near him. Which is why I thought a bullet might have made the hole."

"Si, si, I can understand that," Alfonso agreed, checking the wound in the man's back. He motioned for the Assassin to help him, and rolled the man onto his side so he could remove his armor and check his front. "Ah, the arquebusier, like thunder in a stick; they are becoming more and more common. We could hear the noise they make, during the battle, even from back here. But most bullets do pass through the body, unless…"

He paused, staring at the unblemished chest and holding very still, as if suddenly finding himself confronted by a very deadly and poisonous snake. "Merda! Scusa, Assassino, but help me here. Roll him over again, very gently, try not to let his back twist or turn."

"What is it?" the Assassin asked, doing exactly as he had been told, resting the mercenary onto his front once more, "What is wrong?"

Alfonso swallowed, mentally chastising himself for his slow reaction. His fingers hovered over the wound in the back, a small puncture wound, no larger than the tip of his finger, with hardly any blood coming from it, though the skin around was flushed and swollen and bruising. "This is beyond me; I need Tacitus," he mumbled, his hand beginning to shake.

"What is Tacitus?" the Assassin asked, his golden eyes boring into the dottore.

Alfonso looked to him, at first not realizing that he had spoken aloud. "Tacitus isn't a what, but a who. He is another dottore, more skilled at surgery than any of the rest of us. Augusto!" he called to the other dottore near the back of the tent. "This is serious. Merda! Augusto! Ah, good, there you are. Go and get… no, never mind. I'll get him. You work on preparing this man for surgery. There is a wound in his back, along his spine, intesi?"

The other dottore had hurried up to them by this point, took one look at the mercenary's back, and immediately the blood drained from his face. "Si, si, I know what to do. You get Tacitus. I'll get him ready for surgery." Augusto ducked his head, rummaging around on the floor for some leather straps, willing his heartbeat to slow.

"What is going on?" the Assassin asked, dryly noting to himself that he had been asking a lot of questions that night, "And what can I do to help?"

"Here, take this and strap him down to the table. If he wakes up during surgery, we don't want him to be able to move…"

Alfonso didn't hear any more of their conversation, trusting Augusto to handle preparing the mercenary. He ran non-stop to the tent Tacitus had all to himself, so quickly and single-mindedly that he burst into the private sanctuary without thought. "Tacitus!"

Tacitus was sitting on her cot, cup in hand, when her privacy was invaded. She didn't gasp, didn't make any sudden movements, but shifted around carefully so her back was to Alfonso. She had removed her coat and hat and veil, thinking herself safe within the cube of canvas, never expecting she could be so easily and quickly surprised. And though she thought Alfonso might have gotten a glimpse of her face, it was only in profile, and it would have been the scarred side, and with the bright sunlight outside and the dim interior of the tent… She felt fairly confident he hadn't seen much, if anything, of her features. Even her maidenly form would be camouflaged by her loose tunic. And her hair, well, she had given up on that long ago, the closeness of her hood making it difficult to keep long hair free of snarls. She kept it cropped close to her scalp, exposing one or two scars leftover from that night, but beneath the guise of a dottore, no one would ever see them.

Except Alfonso. This afternoon. And judging by his sudden silence, he had at the very least noticed her scars. Perhaps… he had noticed more. She couldn't be sure, not until he spoke at any rate, and so she sat very still herself, waiting to learn her fate.

"Oh!" she heard him gasp, as if suddenly coming to his senses. "Ah, scusa, Tacitus, but a wounded mercenary has just been found and your skills are needed. He's… well, you should see for yourself."

Relief swept through her. Judging by the tone of his voice, her secret was still secret. She reached out to set her cup down on the ground, and groped for her veil. With quick and expert movements, the result of years of living as she did, she wrapped her features in mystery. Next she shrugged into her cloak and pulled the protective hood up and over her scalp. The hat was over by the door, by Alfonso, and as she stood to turn towards him, she looked up and caught his eye.

He was holding her hat for her, his hands fidgeting with the brim. She walked up to him, bravely facing whatever her fate would be, but after a quick and mostly curious perusal of her features, he looked off to the side and held out her hat. "We should hurry. The wound… well, as I said, you should see for yourself. I'm sure you won't need me to tell you what needs to be done."

She set the hat in place, and gestured for him to lead the way.

Outside, the afternoon light was bright, and her eyes squinted before she could adjust, causing her to miss seeing a tent peg, which sent her stumbling over a rope. Alfonso was there, at her side, gripping an elbow long enough to help her keep her feet. Then he let go, neither lingeringly nor too quickly, so she had no idea if he had discovered she was a woman—and therefore would want to hold her a little longer—or felt repulsed by her scars—and therefore wouldn't want to touch her any longer than necessary.

Dio Mio, but this was worrisome. Va bene, she decided, it would be what it would be. If Alfonso had learned of her gender, it would become apparent quickly enough by his actions around her. Until then, she had a patient in need of her skills. She led the way back to the surgery tent, her steps energetic and purposeful, her mind going over what she might need, wondering if the other two had cleaned up before this latest patient had been brought in.

Just outside she paused, listening to Augusto replying to someone's question.

"The wound is close to the bone, too close. If there is a projectile in there, it could be right up against his spine. Moving him could cause more damage; taking the ball out could cause damage. It's better to restrain him, keep from moving him and keep him from moving himself, until Tacitus has a chance to look at… Ah, there he is, now."

Tacitus almost felt herself blush at the obvious relief in Augusto's voice, but at least such a reaction would be covered by her veil. Instead she went straight for her patient, ignoring both the other dottore and the Assassin standing nearby, to study the wound as she slipped on her gloves. She didn't speak, she never needed to with Alfonso and Augusto around her, but focused her attention on the problem and trusted them to gather the necessary items.

"We have tied him down as best we could, Tacitus," Augusto reported. "He has remained unconscious, fortunately. Should I try to make him take anything for the pain before you begin?"

She gave her half-bow, half-nod, leaning over the man's back, never once taking her eyes off the wound. Gently her fingers prodded the edges, noting the swelling and the redness and the lack of blood. She tilted her head, nodded to herself, and exhaled, her suspicions about the wound confirmed.

"He is bleeding internally, si?" Alfonso breathed, wanting Tacitus' confirmation, and receiving it in her silence. "I knew it. I saw the swelling, the lack of blood coming out, and knew the bullet had to still be in there, holding the blood inside and putting pressure on the spine. Here," he brought up a tray of instruments and set them on a nearby stand.

The Assassin's eyes had narrowed at Tacitus' odd gesture. They narrowed even further when he saw what was on the tray. Briefly he wondered if they were instruments of healing… or of torture. Hooks and knives and needles of various lengths and widths, all of them extremely sharp, were arranged neatly on a tray in what was undoubtedly a precise and well-planned order. "Can I assist in any way?" he offered, partly out of a desire not to stand there having nothing to do, and partly to keep on eye on the strangely familiar dottore.

Tacitus didn't acknowledge his offer, reaching for a knife without glancing up. Alfonso leaned in from the other side, his focus on helping her. It was left to Augusto to answer. He straightened up after carefully dosing the unconscious mercenary with some sort of elixir and commanded, "They're going to need more light. Take that lantern there, and hold it so it shines where they're working."

The Assassin found the lantern in question, a thieve's lantern, one that could be shuttered all around expect for a single small opening, focusing the light to a precise point. He held the lantern carefully, aiming the square of light at the wound widening beneath their blades. "Like so?"

No one answered, so he assumed he was holding it correctly.

Augusto had found a second lantern, and was shining his light from the head of the table, obliterating any shadows that tried to form. Tacitus was already at work, her slight fingers deftly cutting into the angry red flesh of the wound. She worked hard and quickly, her cuts minimal, using an extremely small blade to probe the wound for the leaden ball. She found it, nestled tightly up against the spine and wedged between two of the vertebrae.

"Cazzo!" Alfonso cursed for all of them. "Can you get it out?"

Tacitus didn't look up. She wanted to answer yes, but the ball was stuck fast. She could easily remove the object, but that would involve cutting into the spine, which would leave the man paralyzed, or even kill him. Not to mention all the blood that was being held back by the bullet, adding to the pressure and swelling and…

Sweat was falling from her forehead as she quickly made her decision, the heat from the lanterns adding to her discomfort. She held out her hand, and Alfonso passed her a knife with a smaller curved blade. She delicately began working the knife around the bullet, trying to gently pry it away from the bone, all the while keeping an eye on the ever increasing pressure of the blood beginning to pool.

"Hold that lantern still!" Augusto barked at the Assassin. Out of the corner of her eye she saw the man turn back towards the table. Apparently he was having difficulty not getting sickened by the sight of her work. She glanced to Augusto and flicked her eyes at the Assassin. He understood and, passing his lantern to Alfonso, he walked around the table to take the lantern away from the Assassin.

"Perhaps, Messer, you would like to step outside for some fresh air," he suggested softly. "It is going to take some time for Tacitus to finish. You can wait just outside the tent; there are several stools set out there. Someone will let you know when it is over."

"No, grazie," he answered, his deep gravelly voice slightly familiar to Tacitus. "I am fine, now. I see you need the extra hand; I would like to stay, if I can be of assistance."

Augusto seemed to consider it for a moment before he relinquished his hold on the lantern. He took his own lantern back from Alfonso as he returned to the other side of the table. "You don't have to watch," he offered. "Focus instead on keeping the lantern steady and at the same height as this one."

"Si, I will," the deep voice avowed. Again the edges of Tacitus' memory were tickled, but she couldn't spare the energy to track down whom she was being reminded of. She was tired, her hands wanting to shake with fatigue, but she forced them to remain steady as she deftly inserted the curved blade under the lead ball. With deliberate tenderness she worked the blade between projectile and body, and at last achieved separation.

When she lifted the ball out of the body, the Assassin gave an explosive sigh. None of the other three relaxed yet, however, so he remained steady with his light. He watched as Tacitus set the ball on the tray and returned to the wound to cut away the dead or dying tissue, all the while Alfonso was dabbing at the blood—flowing freely now that it was no longer being dammed by the bullet. He kept himself still as the dottores finished cleaning and closing the wound. When at last they were finished, and Augusto lowered his light, the Assassin finally lowered his own, his shaking arms thankful his work was done at last.

"Will he live?"

Alfonso exchanged a look with the other two before answering the Assassin's question. "It is hopeful. Tacitus," he turned to his friend, dismissing the Assassin offhand, "You were going to get some rest, remember? Augusto and I can handle things for the rest of the day. I'll wake you tomorrow morning, or sooner if there is any change."

The Assassin watched Tacitus closely. The slender dottore looked like he was going to argue with the other, but at last gave a rather peculiar nod and turned to walk out of the tent. The Assassin followed his movements, his eyes narrowed, but whatever glimpse he had thought he noticed, it escaped him. He turned instead back to the other two dottores. "Is he always so silent?"

Augusto laughed easily, now that the danger and tension were past. He was cleaning the instruments, setting them back on the tray so they would be ready should yet another patient come their way. "Si. That is why we call him Tacitus; it means silent or mute, and the man never speaks, and…"

"Augusto," Alfonso's tone had a warning of reprimand, but he didn't hinder the conversation in any way.

"And we've never learned his given name, have we, Alfonso? Not in all the years we've known him. It's been, what, I think it's been about three years now. We met him at a tavern just outside Roma. He was exactly as you see him now, small, silent, dark, but damn good. There had been a bar fight, and he was removing a splinter of wood about seven inches long from a man's gut. Ah, but Tacitus was incredible, his skills unmatched, and the man recovered with barely a scar. We watched him working. Actually," Augusto broke off to give a warm and charming laugh, "We were admiring his work, and asked if he wanted to join us. He looked at us and saw that we worked with Bartolomeo's mercenaries. He didn't answer us with words, only nodded, just once, that same strange sort of half-bow you saw him make today. And he's been with us ever since. I think I've heard him speak, actually speak a word, maybe four, maybe five times, maybe less." He paused to shake his head. "His voice, it is very hard to understand. I think he was injured once, in his throat, and since then he cannot talk. Not that he needs to; we've been around him long enough to know what he needs before he asks for it. Haven't we, Alfonso?"

"It's more than his throat," Alfonso said softly, but the other two heard him. He looked up, surprised that he had spoken aloud, and stammered, "I mean to say, that I think he was hurt in more places than just his throat. He never removes his clothing around us, his cloak and hood and veil."

"Si, I noted his Assassin-like attire," the man said dryly.

"Anyway, it would explain his preference for remaining covered, if he were injured elsewhere, more than just his throat." Alfonso lamely tried to cover his slip, but Augusto smoothed things over easily.

"Si, I suppose, if his face were as ugly as his voice, he would wish to keep himself hidden. I know I certainly would, if I lost my looks." Augusto's ready smile flashed warm and friendly, and the other two men found themselves answering in kind.

"Si, that must be it," Alfonso agreed, hoping this would be the end of the conversation, but he was quickly disillusioned.

"So, he always remains covered? From head to toe? Even when he sleeps?"

The Assassin tried to keep his tone harmlessly curious, but at last even Augusto realized they were talking too much about a friend behind his back. "I don't mean any disrespect, Master Assassin," he answered, having noted the scar on the ring finger of the left hand, "But if you have any more questions about Tacitus, you should speak with him. I can vouch for him, and so will Alfonso, if you are concerned about his character; no one else knows him better. And I would trust Tacitus with my life. If I needed surgery," his hand swept the table behind him, "There is no one else I would want holding the blade. No offense, Alfonso."

"None taken," Alfonso agreed, "I feel the same way."

The Assassin stood a moment longer before responding. "I apologize, dottores; I did not mean to give offense. It is just that there is something about him that puzzles me, something that seems out of place. I was hoping one of you could explain it, or talk about him enough to ease my concerns."

Augusto shrugged, brushing aside the uneasiness as he brushed aside the earlier awkwardness of their conversation. "Nessun problema. It is probably simply his lack of vocalization. It disturbs most people. Which is another reason we have him do the hardest surgeries; you usually don't have to talk with your patients. And besides," Alfonso set away the last of the implements, "He does have the steadiest hands. You saw him yourself! He has been working, what, a day and a night and most of a day without rest. And he was still able to operate on your friend here."

"Scusa, dottores," a loud voice called as a man walked into the tent, "But I am looking for Ezio, and someone said they saw him come in here. Ah, there you are."

The Assassin turned to see who had entered behind him. "Bartolomeo, what is it?"

The old warrior answered quickly, ignoring the dottores and focusing on the man he had come to find. "I am made the beggar, again asking for your help. I have one man missing, a scout, who was working the forest to the east. No one has seen him, not since last night, and he is several hours past due for reporting in."

"I think I found him already," Ezio answered, indicating the prone man still unconscious and strapped to the surgery table. "I was doing my own scouting, after the battle, when I found this man. He had been shot in the back."

Bartolomeo furrowed his brows as he approached the table. "Eh? What? Has he been operated on? If not, Tacitus should be summoned; he's the best dottore I have."

"He has already removed the ball of lead," Ezio acknowledged.

"Bene," Bartolomeo nodded. "Grazie mille, my old friend. Yet again you live up to your reputation. You've found my missing man and gotten the best available help for him, all before I even told you he was missing!" He gave a loud bark of laughter, the two dottores flinching at the noise but otherwise standing stock still. "You have things so well in hand, I think I will retire."

"Do not do that," Ezio deadpanned, "I have my hands full with the Brotherhood; I don't need to have to manage your mercenaries, too."

Bartolomeo looked at him for a moment, before the play on words registered. He laughed again, throwing himself into the humor with the same gusto as he threw himself into every other endeavor. "I meant, retire for the night, not retire from mercenary work."

"That is a relief. Then I shall bid you buona notte, my friend."

"Buona notte, Ezio. Retire? Hah!" he continued to mumble as he left the surgery, "Old mercenaries never retire…"

Ezio indulged in a warm chuckle, always enjoying pulling Bartolomeo's leg, before returning his attention to the two dottores. He found them standing there, staring at him, their mouths open, stunned into silence. "What is it? Something in my teeth? Or a spot on my robes?" He pretended to fuss about his clothing.

Alfonso was the first to find his voice. "Scusa, Messer Auditore," he all but breathed the words, "For our earlier rudeness. We did not realize you were you. Of course we'll tell you anything you wish to know about Tacitus."

Ezio laughed easily, and they relaxed. "It is as much my own fault; I do not like to advertise my presence," he admitted. "But I also appreciate your loyalty to your friend, and I will not press you for any more answers. When Tacitus wakes tomorrow morning, and he has some spare time, ask him to come see me. I would like to get to know him a little better. And as you said, it would be best if I asked him questions about himself, no? Buona notte, dottores."

"Buona notte," Augusto answered for them. After Ezio left, he and Alfonso looked at each other, and neither knew what to say, much less who should be the one to tell Tacitus he had an appointment with the legendary Master Assassin.

BREAK

Tacitus was up an hour before the dawn, intent on making her rounds before her patients were fully awake. She didn't like to distress them, especially the ones she had operated on, and waking up to find a veiled face leaning over one could make one fairly distressed. So she checked their wounds while they were still sleeping, and left written instructions for the other two dottores if anything was needed. She was nearly done, the only patient left to check was the one whom she had operated on the night before. He was laying still, his body strapped securely to the table as it had been the night before. The man was awake, however, his blood shot eyes wide with anxiety. When he spotted her darkly veiled form nearing him, his feverish mind jumped to the wrong conclusion.

"Are you Death?" he whispered.

She stopped, unsure of approaching, both because he was awake and because of the delirious nature of the question. But neither Alfonso nor Augusto were there, so it was up to her and her alone to answer him. Trying to ease his mind, she shook her head slowly one time.

"Then," he paused, swallowing past a tongue thickened with dehydration, "I am still alive?" When she simply stood there, he continued, "Who are you? Where am I? Am I to be tortured?" Weakly he struggled with his bonds.

Tacitus was beside him in a heartbeat, her hands sure and strong despite their slight size, holding him still and securing his straps. Then she knelt down to where he could see her and stroked his forehead in what she hoped was a reassuring manner. Something must have worked; somehow without words she must have been able to communicate that he had nothing to fear, at least from her. He stopped struggling, his panting slowed, though his eyes refused to let hers go. After a few minutes, he tried again to start a conversation. "Can you speak?"

She shook her head once, her shoulders moving with the action to keep the scars from pulling her skin. Movement at the entrance of the tent caught her eye, and she looked up to see Alfonso walk inside. His clothing was ruffled and his hair unkempt, as if he had slept fully dressed and on the floor. He stifled a yawn behind his hand as he greeted her, "Buon giorno, Tacitus." He stopped when he noticed she was kneeling next to the patient. "Is he awake?"

In answer to this question, the wounded mercenary demanded, "Who's there? Where am I?"

"Easy, friend, easy," Alfonso answered, tucking in his clothing and closing the front of his coat as he came around into the man's view, "You are in the hands of the most capable of Roma's dottores, Tacitus. He operated on you last night, and removed the bullet from your spine."

"Bullet?" the man repeated, "Why can't you speak? Why can't I move? Where is this place?"

"Here," Alfonso settled himself beside Tacitus. "Let me explain. You were found yesterday in the woods, not too far from where you were patrolling. Do you remember what happened to you?"

"Si," the man's face contorted as he struggled through his memories. "Si, I… I think so. It was… strange. Backwards, it seems. Something knocked against my back, and I fell to the ground. Then I heard what sounded like thunder; at least, I think the thunder came second. It was, well, backwards."

"Si, it would be. You were shot by an arquebusier. Tacitus here removed the leaden ball. We had to strap you down to the table, to keep you from moving."

"What do you mean? Why can't I move? Why won't you let me…?"

"Keep calm and I will explain," Alfonso exercised the patience of a saint. "The bullet was lodged within your spine. Your spine controls your movements. If it was damaged by the projectile, or if the projectile was close enough that your own movement might cause the damage to your spine, then you might lose the ability to walk. So, we strapped you securely to the table so you cannot move and hurt yourself."

The mercenary was silent for a moment, staring at them both, his eyes flickering between their faces—or at least between Alfonso's face and Tacitus' eyes. "That made no sense to me, but if you two are dottores, then I'll have to take your word for it. When will I be able to move?"

Alfonso and Tacitus exchanged a look. "That all depends on how fast you heal," he answered for them both. "Tell me, can you wiggle your fingers?"

The man dutifully wiggled the digits on both hands.

"Bene. How about your toes?" Alfonso and Tacitus looked down to the man's feet, his boots having been removed with most of the rest of his clothing last night.

The man tried, but being unable to see his feet, he couldn't know whether or not he was successful. "I… I think so. Are they moving? I cannot tell."

As always, no words needed to be exchanged between the dottores. Tacitus stood and moved to examine the wound while Alfonso dealt with the patient. "Listen very carefully to me. There is no reason yet to be alarmed."

"I can't walk?"

"Do not be alarmed," Alfonso repeated, and then added as an aside, "Why do they never listen to that part? Your back as been injured, si, but the wound is still fresh, the swelling is still severe. Give yourself time to heal; you may be able to feel your legs after a day or so. The important thing now is for you to remain calm, and still, and do everything Tacitus tells you. Well, everything we dottores tell you," he amended hastily. "Intesi?"

The man swallowed, fighting off the fear and the anxiety of his now uncertain future. "Si," he nodded at last. "Tacitus," he added, his eyes trying to look over his shoulder to where she stood. "Tacitus, I have heard of you. You are well known in the ranks, for having worked miracles before. I beg you, work a miracle on me, make me walk again, and I will be your man to my last breath."

Tacitus felt her cheeks burn with embarrassment, his gratitude was so deep, his desperation so strong, his vow so mortal. But she moved back to where she could see the man's eyes, Alfonso moving out of the way. She held his gaze for several moments, and spoke her first words in months. "Your name?"

The voice, dry and dusty as always, was almost too soft to hear, and the speech almost too slurred to understand, but the mercenary heard. He heard and understood and answered, "Marco."

She took off one glove and placed her hand on his shoulder, giving it an encouraging squeeze, her dark blue eyes melting into a sympathetic softness, as she gave her peculiar nod. He relaxed, the relief washing over him with physical force. "Grazie," he breathed, almost as dry and husky as her words had been, "Grazie mille."

She stood up then and stepped back, motioning Alfonso to follow her, leaving Marco to cry his tears of relief in whatever privacy he could find.

When they were far enough away that they were out of earshot, Alfonso asked, "How does it look? Has the swelling gone down? Was there any damage to his spine? Do you really think he will recover?"

She didn't look at Alfonso, but studied Marco on the table, his breathing strong and steady. She thought about the wound she had just examined, and the amount of swelling that was continuing to put pressure on his spine. But she had found no cause for the swelling other than normal post-surgery effect. And there looked to be little to no damage to the bone or flesh or nerves. A bit too confident in her abilities, and in the healing abilities of a man she had just met, she gave another of her strange nods.

The effect on Alfonso was almost as embarrassing as the effect on Marco. Tacitus had to admit she liked the way people looked to her for advice, but the blind faith could get tiring after a while. Looking around her, she decided she needed some fresh air and began stepping past Alfonso.

"Wait," he said, his hand on her arm stopping her forward momentum. She turned back to him, her eyes dark and wide between her hood and veil. "Last night, the Assassin who brought Marco in, the one who had trouble holding the lantern? Do you know who that was? It was Ezio Auditore. Il Mentore, himself."

Tacitus' mind wanted to shut down at that point. Ezio Auditore da Firenze, the charismatic man who was sweeping through Roma, swelling the ranks of the Assassins, and spiking the wheels of the Borgia despots. Ezio was here last night, not more than a couple of feet from her, and she hadn't recognized him. Thankful for the veil, she felt her cheeks redden once more. The voice that had tickled her memories—the familiarity that she had brushed aside—if only she had looked up at his face rather than his shaking hands. Alfonso's words were rushing past her in waves of sound, however, and she had to hasten to catch up with them. "Auditore?" her dusty voice sighed.

"Si, he asked to speak with you first thing this morning. Knowing how you like to get up early to see your patients before they wake up, I knew I could find you here and give you the message. He was asking a lot of questions about you, but I don't think there is anything wrong. He might just be curious." Alfonso paused to laugh. "You do have a bit of an odd reputation, Tacitus. It would be natural for anyone to be curious about you and your past."

Her knees felt weak. Ezio had asked Alfonso and Augusto about her past after she had left them last night. She wondered briefly if he had recognized her, but decided against it. If he had recognized her as Margherita Campi, he would have said something last night, or even followed her to her tent and confronted her. Reassuring herself that she had been as anonymous to him as he had been to her, she squared her shoulders and gave a small bow of thanks to Alfonso, both for delivering his message and for his loyalty.

He didn't let go of her arm, however, and she wondered what was coming next. He didn't hold her in suspense for long, but spoke softly so his voice carried no further than her ears. "Tacitus, one more thing, about yesterday, in your tent, when I opened the flap and saw…" he stopped to swallow, and she felt her heart being to race. She had told herself, convinced herself, that he hadn't seen anything, he couldn't have seen anything, or he wold have said something to her, to anyone, long before this. Yet she could not run away now, she could not escape whatever accusations were about to come out of Alfonso's mouth. She could only hold herself still and watch him lift his face and force himself to look her in the eye. "I think you should know I saw part of your face, specifically your scars. I'm sorry, Tacitus, for whatever happened to you. I understand now a little more why you find it so difficult to speak, and why you prefer your privacy. And I haven't spoken about this to anyone, and I won't. Ever. I promise on my mother's grave. I want you to know that."

Again, the strength of the man's loyalty to her was overwhelming, but at least her mind could be at rest. And now she understood; he still believed her to be a man, though a heavily scarred man, but at least he would keep this knowledge to himself. She nodded once more, closing her hand over his in gratitude. When his fingers finally slipped from their grasp, she turned and left the tent.

Outside, the sun was just rising, the birds already giving voice to the new day. She paused a moment to breath in through her veil, wishing she could lift herself up on the breeze and fly with the birds away from the battlefield and death and blood. Too many bodies, both men and women, had passed beneath her hands over the past three days, and her heart ached for each one that had died. Yet for every death, she had saved a dozen more, her skills with knives and anatomy and apothecary stronger than most other dottores. Because of her, three men would still have their hands rather than face amputation or death. Because of her, seven or eight men and two women would not bleed to death internally. Because of her, Marco would have a chance to walk again.

Having reminded herself of her abilities and her reason for staying in this hellhole of a camp, she turned to face her next peril, the leader of the Assassin Order.

She had been thinking she would walk to his tent and check to see if he was awake, but stopped before she took her first step. Ezio was already up and about and walking towards her, the sun's rays off to their side highlighting his profile. She indulged herself, drinking in the sight of him; he was a good-looking man after all. And she had once tended to his body as she had to others. Remembering how he had appeared on her doorstep three years ago, and the wounds he had sustained, she studied his movements. She told herself it was merely gratification on a professional level to see no obvious sign of any lingering weakness due to the bullet wounds she had treated, though it appeared he had developed a habit of holding his back a bit too stiff and straight. And her sharp eyes picked out one or two more scars than he had before, as well as a slight limp she attributed to a recent muscle strain. Si, it was obvious he had been in the battle against the French earlier that week, but if he had sustained any recent injuries, they were not serious enough to require her attention.

So, then, she wondered, what he could want with her? If he hadn't recognized her, and if he wasn't wounded, then why did he wish to speak with her?

"Buon giorno, dottore," Ezio bowed as he reached her. Unthinkingly, she started to curtsy in return—an undeniably feminine response—but caught herself in time and turned the gesture into a bow, covering the faint stumble smoothly. Her actions didn't escape his notice, though he reacted by grabbing her arm in a brotherly manner, rather than taking her arm as one would take a woman's arm. "Scusa, Dottore," he added, "But you must still be tired after all your hard work these past few days. I meant for us to meet in my tent, where we could sit and talk in comfort, not out here in the chilly morning air. Perhaps we could retire there now?"

She didn't verbally answer, but gave another bow of acquiescence. They began walking side by side, back through the rows of tents, towards the large pavilion serving as his living quarters. Ezio passed the time in idle talk, occasionally stopping to speak with one or another of the mercenaries as they progressed. They all seemed to know him, or know of him, and took pains to remember some past anecdote with him. It was amazing to her how this one man, who had arrived in Roma all but abandoned by his single friend, could in three years raise an army of Assassins and still find the time to speak with the common soldiers.

She was still marveling about this skill when they reached his tent. Inside was an Assassin who was waiting to speak with his leader. While Ezio conducted business, Tacitus took the time to study the surroundings. The inside was furnished yet sparsely so—comfortable, but with only that which was essential. A bed waited behind a screen in one corner, and another screen housed what she suspected was a private area for personal necessities. In the center was a large table, currently serving as a desk though it showed evidence of also having served as a dining table. Three chairs were spaced around the tent, one at the table/desk and the other two seemingly placed at random. One small table along the side held glasses and a carafe of what she assumed to be wine. The floor was strewn with rugs, thick and strong yet well weathered, and the sides of the pavilion were dense enough to keep out the wind and rain.

This was a man who knew how to live on what was necessary and valued usefulness; it didn't matter to him if something was pretty or delicate, only that it stand up to what it was intended to be used for. This was a practical man.

She was lost in her contemplation of him when she heard a gentle cough behind her. Startled she turned to find Ezio, who was no longer speaking to the other Assassin but standing behind her. She knew he noticed her jump, but he was gracious enough not to comment on it. "Now that that's cleared up, we should be able to speak in private—for a few moments at least. Would you care to take a seat?" His hand motioned to one of the chairs nearby as he turned his back to her to walk towards his desk. She hesitated only a moment, before she took hold of the chair and lifted, surprised at the lightness of the furniture. She brought the wooden contraption across the rugs and closer to the table, where he had taken a seat in the chair he obviously habitually sat in.

"Before we begin, would you care for anything? I have wine handy, and I think there's still some bread and cheese from earlier lying about here." He began rummaging on the table, finding the platter of food under a stack of unrolled parchment.

Tacitus shook her head in the negative only once, sitting very still and very straight on her chair. She was more on edge, simply because Ezio had tried to put her more at ease. She didn't know what this was about, and his manner left her without doubt that she would not enjoy it.

Ezio didn't press, sensing there were more reasons than Tacitus wanted known for his reluctance to be sociable. He instead busied himself as he tried to find an opening in what he assumed correctly was going to be a very one-sided conversation. "Tacitus," he began, glancing up and then away. "I wanted to talk with you for a couple of reasons. First," he squared his shoulders and made himself look Tacitus squarely in the eye, "I need your advice. I have a mission that requires a certain skill set that cannot be easily acquired. Specifically, I have a need for an Assassino who is also a skilled dottore.

"Let me explain a bit, before you get the wrong idea," he continued, holding up a hand as if she would interrupt him. He realized his action was unnecessary, but she didn't react so he recovered smoothly. "As I understand it, you have been working here with Bartolomeo's army for three years now. You must know or at least suspect by now that he, like me, is an Assassino. You also should know about us, about our creed, and about our enemies. I assume you agree with what we believe, or you would not be so willing to work with us. Am I correct?"

He was waiting for her answer, so she gave him one deliberate nod. If he was disappointed at her lack of verbalization, he didn't show it. His tone of voice was almost cheerful when he spoke again.

"I also assume you know about the Templars and their searches for ancient artifacts, or what they call Pieces of Eden, one of which they have taken from us and hidden somewhere in Roma. But never mind about that one; I am close to reclaiming it. I am concerned about another Piece of Eden, one with unimaginable explosive power, that the Templars are searching for. This search is being led by a man from Roma, whose name I have yet to discover. In fact, there is much that I need to learn about him and this artifact he is looking for. But I am fairly sure that he is in need of a dottore, one who is skilled in both surgery and apothecary. And I only know this much, because some of my men have confiscated the dottore he forcibly recruited."

Tacitus blinked at him. She wanted to tell him that he went through that a little too fast for her to follow, but he seemed to sense her lack of understanding and began to explain for her. "Two days ago, while I was helping Bartolomeo rescue his wife, one of our patrols stumbled across a small group of Templar soldiers escorting a captive. The soldiers were left alone, but the captive was rescued and brought to the Assassin Tower on Isola Tiberina. The man had been beaten and starved, and was grateful to be freed, so he told us everything he knew. His story is long, but the relevant facts are few. The soldiers who abducted him work for someone they refer to as 'The Roman Count.' This Count had sent them out to find the most skilled dottore they could, and bring the dottore to his camp, somewhere in the mountains—by whatever means necessary.

"Now, I admit there is not much to say that this Roman Count abducting dottores is also the unnamed Templar who is searching for a Piece of Eden, but I cannot let this chance slip through my fingers. I must follow this lead. So I would like to send someone with this Count's soldiers, who are still in the vicinity looking for a dottore, to find out who this Count is and what he is doing in the mountains. I would send one of my Assassins, but none of them have the necessary skills these soldiers are looking for. Therefore, I need to send an actual dottore."

His voice seemed to grow cold, and Tacitus suppressed the urge to shudder. She thought she could see now where this was going, but his next words surprised her. "I know what you are thinking, but rest assured; I won't order you or one of the other dottores to go. None of you have received training as Assassins, nor have any of you taken our oath. You and Alfonso and Augusto are dottores and only dottores; I cannot make any of you do anything." He was watching Tacitus closely, and noted the wrinkle between his eyes as he tried to understand just where this conversation was going. "I can only ask, simply ask, one of you three to volunteer. This mission is dangerous; if you are found out to be spying for the Assassins, you will be killed. But if you can discover the information I need—whether or not this Count is the Templar I have heard about, and if so has he found the artifact—it would be worth the risk. You might not understand the reasoning behind this, but believe me, the fate of all men could rest on this one mission."

He paused again, giving him time to consider his words, watching the emotions pass across what little he could see of Tacitus' face, waiting until he had reached his decision. Then Ezio pulled yet another surprise. "I would ask it of you, Tacitus, but I do not think it would be wise. It would be too difficult sending a mute dottore to work with total strangers. It was one thing for you to build a relationship with Alfonso and Augusto; both men know you so well that they anticipate your needs before you try to communicate them; I saw that last night in your surgery. But in the Templar camp, you would have to be without your assistants, and the added difficulty might work against your being accepted. I would therefore like to ask either Alfonso or Augusto to go on this mission, and would seek your advice on whom to ask. Augusto seems more readily to make friends, but he also likes to talk, perhaps a bit too much. Alfonso is a little quieter, and less likely to let something slip, but he wouldn't make friends and find out the information as quickly. Speed is of the essence, but if the spy is discovered, we will have to start over again. So my question is: which man do I ask to volunteer to risk his life on a cause he may or may not believe in?"

Tacitus was stunned. She sat there, staring at Ezio, wondering how she should answer. He was asking her advice on which one of her friends she would recommend for a mission that would surely end in their death. She had no disillusions; she knew neither man would be able to keep himself out of trouble for too long. Whichever man went, he would have to be quick to find out what Ezio required so he could be rescued before something happened. She held his gaze, knowing the answer yet reluctant to offer the name Ezio needed. She knew both men well enough to know they both would accept the mission if Ezio asked, so which one should she pick for him—which of her closest friends could she condemn to death?

As if he could sense her thoughts, he leaned forward and said, "Tacitus, I beg you. I know this is dangerous, and if there was another way I would take it, but there is not. I must send a dottore with these soldiers before they leave the area. So which one do I ask?"

Feeling her heart break, knowing that speed was of the most importance, she answered him, the one name rough and barely discernible on the hoarse choke that was her voice. "Augusto."

Ezio leaned back, a little stunned. He hadn't expected a verbal answer, but some sort of sign or even written words to communicate which dottore he should ask. Tacitus' voice, so ruined and rough and hard to understand, gave him more speculation on why this slight man wore a veil and kept himself covered so carefully. His eyes warmed with sympathy and gratitude for the pain and effort it cost him to answer, both physically and emotionally. "Grazie, Dottore. Please know I will do everything physically possible to keep him safe, should he accept this mission."

She nodded once and made to stand.

"One moment more, please. There is another matter I would discuss with you." Ezio waited until he settled himself once more before he continued. "This has been bothering me since last night, but there wasn't time then to pursue the matter. Now, I wish to know something. You seem familiar to me. Have we met before?"

His eyes, so warm and amber in the morning light, were also dangerous, like those of a wolf about to decide if you were prey or enemy, or simply unworthy of attention. Tacitus didn't see her own eyes grow dark as they sank into depths of emotionless blue that almost drowned him. She held his gaze for several heartbeats before she shook her head in the negative one time.

Ezio wanted to strangle the silent man sitting across from him, but kept his temper in check. There was something strange about the dottore, something he felt he should know or remember or recognize, but since he could never remember having met a mute dottore, he supposed it was more his imagination than any actual relation to another person. There must be something, some little thing like a mannerism or a trait that only reminded him of someone. He had tried to distract the man during their conversation, watching his body language closely, even trying to hear the pitch and timber of that ruined voice. Yet whatever it was that he thought he recognized, apparently it was all in his mind.

"Va bene, dottore," he gave in with more grace than he felt. "Let me walk with you back to the surgery tent; I would wish to speak with Augusto about this mission. The sooner it is started, the sooner it is over, eh?"

She stood, surprising herself at how steady her knees were holding her upright, and walked with Ezio outside into the bright morning sunshine. She no longer felt warm, however, thinking how she had just practically sentenced her friend to death.

And not knowing what it was that had made her deny her identity to Ezio.


	5. Ill News

**Chapter Five: Ill News**

Ezio's stride was purposeful, his long and lean legs making short work of any and all distances. He had no need to hasten today, in fact he should probably be trying to stall or even avoid his current mission—any normal man would. But he had never been the kind of man who would shirk an unappetizing chore. So he kept his pace steady and strong, his focus clear and centered, and zeroed in on his next target.

As if suddenly realizing what he was doing, he scoffed at himself and slowed his pace. After all, he didn't want to burst upon the slight man and startle him, or worse—come barreling down a hallway like a charging bull and frighten him. Ezio relaxed his shoulders and took a deep breath before rounding the next corner. He had asked a few of the mercenaries in Bartolomeo's fortress about where he could find the strangely silent dottore, and learned about his twice daily walks in the courtyard with his pet patient, Marco. Without allowing himself time to reconsider or doubt or even pass the responsibility on to Bartolomeo to deliver the news, he set his course for the center of the complex and entered the courtyard.

Ezio paused just within the awning and studied the scene until he found whom he was looking for—Tacitus. There he stood, or rather, there he shuffled, awkwardly backwards, his steps as hesitant and stuttering as his patient's steps. Both arms appeared to be on the verge of reaching out as if to catch or support Marco, but he did not touch the mercenary. He allowed Marco every opportunity to prove the worth of his own legs, his own willpower, his own pride, no matter how slow or sporadic or wayward their route became.

He allowed himself a small smile in approval. He had kept tabs on Marco over the past four weeks, mostly because he felt slightly responsible for the man; he had been the one who had saved the young mercenary's life, so naturally he would be curious to see how Marco was faring. It had been slow going at first, he'd heard, a struggle to find the strength to even wiggle his toes, much less bend his knees. But Marco had persevered, as was evident today by his stifled steps and clutched crutches, neither of which kept him from his feet. And it had been all thanks to Tacitus' skill in both healing and inspiring.

Ezio felt even more the heel, knowing he was about to reward all the dottore's efforts and hard work with ill and unwanted news.

Tacitus knew nothing of what was about to happen, her entire world right then centered on making sure Marco kept his feet, or if not, that she would be ready to catch him when—if—he should fall. She studied his features with a knowing eye, measuring the beaded sweat on his brow, the tremors running through his tired muscles, the heaviness of his breath, all the while anticipating that moment when they would have to stop, when she would have to take his arm and order him to rest. It had happened more than once during the past four weeks, Marco would push himself too hard and too fast, all trying to impress her or something of the sort, only he would wind up hurting himself, straining a muscle or fainting from lack of strength or once—embarrassingly—even collapsing flat on his face. She suppressed a sigh as he continued to lurch and sway and hobble forwards. He was just one of those patients, it seemed.

But he was recovering.

"Tacitus."

The voice that called her name was warm, welcoming, and readily recognized as a friend. Ezio, she wanted to answer automatically, regretting her ruined voice, and she almost turned around to see him. But there was a moment of delay, a moment where she had to first make sure that her patient would not injure himself should she spare a glance away, a moment during which she registered the dark and woeful tone in Ezio's voice, a moment when she noted the look on Marco's face as he stared at the assassin approaching over her shoulder, a look of something akin to confusion or concern in his expression. And in that moment, she knew.

No sound escaped her, no name was voiced, but her veil did move with her breath. She closed her eyes, a slow blink, and in that moment Marco looked away from the assassin and back to her. He saw the pain in what little showed of her features. He took note of the exhale accompanied by the slumping of her shoulders, and wondered at what could be the cause. He was still staring when she opened her eyes once more, opened them and sought his face and found compassion and empathy within him.

He opened his mouth, but there was nothing he could say, as he had not quite yet figured out the source of her anguish. Instead, it was another voice that spoke.

"Buon giorno, Marco, Tacitus," Ezio finally reached their sides. He effused a kind of forced camaraderie and bravado as he continued, "Marco, I see you are nearly recovered. No doubt you will be running circles around Tacitus by the end of next week."

Marco put off the mystery of the dottore's pain—Tacitus was a very private man—for a later time, to be unraveled with all the other mysteries, and lifted his face to the Assassin. He quickly replied with an easy laugh, warm and confident, despite the shaky and uneven support of his crutches. "And the week after, I'll race you across the rooftops of Roma, from here all the way to the Colosseum!" Ezio laughed and smiled in response, but the amusement never reached his eyes and the expression faded as the other man added. "Pardon my impertinence, Il Mentore, but I would speak with you a moment. It is of a somewhat personal nature," he paused to cough politely, as if he knew he was intruding on something he knew he shouldn't, but also knew the two of them would allow it. "I know it weighs heavily on Tacitus' mind, though of course he says nothing—obviously—of his concern for his friend. So allow me to ask on his behalf, to voice the question that he cannot: is there any word on the dottore, Augusto?"

Tacitus did not wish to hear the answer; indeed, she already knew it! But she held no grudge against Marco for asking. He wasn't trying to breach a hole into her personal life, so much as he was trying to help her, to be her voice, to speak the words that she—as he so eloquently put it—literally could not speak. She did, however, bow her head, just far enough to hide her eyes from the other two beneath the wide brim of her hat.

Thinking that he had done a good deed, that he had broached the subject for both of them, that he had gotten them through that awkward beginning of the conversation, Marco felt his job was done. "Scusa, Il Mentore, Tacitus," he nodded his head to each of them, "But I suddenly feel a little light-headed. I think I will just go over there and sit down. Again, scusa."

He made to move off, but Tacitus's hand suddenly clasped onto his arm, refusing to let him move without her support. He stayed, his face showing a little discomfort, as Ezio added his opinion. "I do not think walking on your own would be such a good idea, Marco, not until you are through with those crutches. We will both help you, over there, to that bench in the shade."

"I, ah, that is…" Marco's voice trailed away as he, finally, began to get the idea that perhaps—just maybe, there was a slight possibility—that neither Tacitus nor Ezio wished to have this particular conversation started. "Va bene, if the two of you wish to act like a pair of old women, fussing over me, then you may." He somehow managed a shrug despite the crutches, "It's not as if I could resist you."

"Grazie," Ezio replied dryly, "For your understanding." Together he and Tacitus, one to either side, guided Marco's faithless legs towards the nearest bench, tucked into an alcove beneath an embrasure. The young mercenary grimaced as they bent him, carefully, to allow him to sit on the bench, then eased him back against the wall. He sighed, or rather let out an anguished sort of breath, but in the next moment the pain eased from his features.

"Ah, better." He opened his eyes and noted the two were staring at him and continuing to refuse to acknowledge the other. He shifted slightly, bracing his back a little tighter into the corner, and stretched his legs out. "I think I will take a few moments to catch my breath, eh? Then I'll be ready for that race."

Ezio nodded and smiled, his hand giving Marco a slight squeeze on his shoulder. "Si, Marco; we'll have that race whenever you give the word."

"Bene," Marco agreed. "Now, move off a bit and give me some room to breathe. The two of you are hovering." He flicked his fingers at them, before closing his eyes and leaning his head back far enough to catch a gentle breeze coming through the embrasure, effectively dismissing both dottore and Il Mentore.

Ezio chuckled, softly, good-naturedly, and leaned back himself. "I think we have been dismissed. Come, Tacitus," he announced, though quietly in case Marco truly did need to rest, "Let us give your patient the air he requires. Walk with me for a time, prego?"

She was trapped, and reluctantly pulled away from Marco. She knew why he had asked for the rest, and it wasn't because he was out of breath—he had stubbornly been walking the full circuit of the courtyard without rest every day since he had first gained his feet. No, he had asked for the respite because he knew, he knew that the news Il Mentore brought was not good, and he wished to give them some excuse to seek privacy. She didn't know if she was thankful for his thoughtfulness, or ungrateful for his desertion. She did see, however, that she no longer had a choice in the matter; she and Ezio were already walking away, almost instinctively finding a separate alcove where he could give her the bad news without being overheard.

How thoughtful, she thought bitterly.

"I, ah," Ezio paused to clear his throat, and embarrassingly discovered his courage was flagging. He decided to start with something easier, and work his way up to the hard news. "I have been keeping an eye on Marco's progress. Through Bartolomeo. I was the one who found him in the forest; I feel I am partly responsible for saving his life. Though of course, you, and Marco, have been doing all the hard work since. I hear it has been difficult for him, that the pain and swelling in his back has continued, though slowly lessening. But I can see today the progress he's made: walking. Most would not have lived through such a wound, much less regained the feeling in their legs. But thanks to you, Tacitus, your skills and your nurturing manner, you have worked yet another miracle of medicine. Your reputation is justly deserved."

The praise fell like bitter ash on her ears. Si, she did have a reputation of working miracles, of doing the impossible, but truly it was nothing more than a rather far-reaching and eclectic knowledge of medicine, of surgery, of herbs—of science, honestly. Yet all her experience, all her skills, meant nothing when it came to this this particular happenstance.

Silently, she allowed the praise to fade and stared out the embrasure, waiting for Ezio to continue.

"I suppose you have already guessed at what I am about to tell you," he began, turning to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with her, also gazing at the scenery without seeing it. "I do not have a detailed report as yet; one of the Assassini I sent with Augusto is returning with a full story. But a pigeon arrived this morning with a brief account."

A brief account, she repeated to herself. Could a man's life, or his death, be summed up briefly? Tears shimmered in her eyes but did not block her vision; like Ezio, she had not been noticing the view, either. All she could see were Augusto's unaffected smile and sparkling olive eyes.

"As you know, Augusto readily volunteered for this mission." He grimaced and chastised himself, thinking it unfair to appear to be shifting the blame onto the shoulders of the enthusiastic dottore, but the words were already out of his mouth before he could consider how they might sound. Slowing his tongue, thinking things through first, he tried yet again.

"It started out well. The Assassini set Augusto in a place where the Templar soldiers would easily stumble across him. And the Templars took the bait, and Augusto, with them. It was easy enough for my men to track them, even after they reached the mountains. Just past the foothills, the Templars stopped at an encampment. We do not believe this to be the main encampment, as the Roman Count never showed himself. It appeared to be more of a transportation nexus, caravans of supplies coming in and being stored before they were redistributed to other caravans traveling in various directions. The Templars brought Augusto there, presumably to restock before heading out for their final destination, so my men continued to keep their distance and simply watch. All this I knew from earlier reports. The one that arrived this morning, however, carried ill news, as you've no doubt surmised."

Ezio seemed reluctant to continue, and Tacitus—true to her nurturing nature—instinctively found herself looking for a way to comfort him. He leaned forward, placing his hands on the ledge in front of the window, and bowed his head, retreating further into the shadows beneath his hood. She felt a sudden impulse to put her hand over his, to allow the warmth of their fingers to entwine, but caught herself just in time. It was a feminine gesture, even an intimate one, and definitely one that would not be acceptable between two men. Closing her hand into a fist, she held herself straight, still, and silent, and felt her heart break under the force of his next words.

"Early on the third morning after reaching the encampment, Augusto was roused from his tent, half dressed, and taken to the middle of the encampment, held between two soldiers. He was beaten until he went limp, before being dragged away. We do not know why; I can only assume at this point that he made some sort of slip, or one of my Assassini was spotted, or some other clue was discovered that revealed Augusto as an agent. Again, I do not know; I can only guess." He paused to take a deep breath, "Tacitus, I… I am sorry… but we must assume that Augusto is dead. I wish…" he turned to look at her, and suddenly his words failed him. He stared into her deep blue eyes, and for a moment she almost thought he recognized her. Yet he didn't speak again, neither to continue his apology, nor to lay claim to discovering her true identity as she feared, his words stuck fast within his throat.

The conversation was over.

Tacitus surprised herself. She didn't cry, not there in front of Ezio, anyway. She actually felt calm as a sort of false clarity washed over her. She nodded her thankfulness for the news and that he was willing to deliver it himself, a very formal nod; she rarely gave more than a single responsive gesture at a time. Then she turned to walk back to Marco. Her face she knew was hidden beneath her veil, but her eyes must have given her away. As she approached her patient, as he looked up and into her face, Marco's voice was choked with sympathy.

"I'm sorry, Tacitus."

She didn't acknowledge his empathy as she helped him to his feet, other than a slight squeeze on his arm. Instead, they continued their walk around the courtyard as if Ezio had never been there. Indeed, the alcove where she had been standing with him was already vacated, the master Assassino disappearing into thin air, true to his reputation.

"Look, Tacitus," Marco's voice interrupted her gaze, dragging her focus back to her patient. "Look at how well I am doing, eh?" his contagious smile beamed at her from behind a light dusting of sweat. "Look at how strong my legs are," he wobbled on his crutches. "Look at the fruits of your labor, amico mio. You are truly a worker of miracles, no?" his gray face overflowed with faithfulness and a deep regard.

She could not smile for him, for his efforts at cheering her or pleasing her or distracting her, but she was thankful he made the attempt.

Tacitus honestly could not remember the rest of that day. She knew she must have walked with Marco to the hall, and seen to it that he had eaten, and then helped him back to his room. Yet very little of any lasting value remained in her memories after turning away from Ezio.

Augusto was dead.

It was some time later, far into the afternoon or early evening, before she came back to herself. She was standing alone, her hands hugging her arms, staring down at the quiet waters of a lake at the base of a cliff, her thoughts drifting and sinking into those waters. Four weeks ago…

Four weeks ago, she and Alfonso had stood by, listening silently as Ezio explained the plan to the effusive dottore. Of course Augusto had agreed to go on the mission; the chance for adventure, to pretend—at least in his own mind—to be an Assassino, even if truthfully he was merely there as bait. She and Alfonso had exchanged a look, dark and overflowing with meaning and completely missed by Augusto as it had been behind his back. They both knew that Alfonso would have been the better choice, the safer choice, the more discreet choice—but Ezio had been uncharacteristically impatient. So they had remained silent, Alfonso as silent as Tacitus for once, and watched as their best friend volunteered for a mission that would surely end in his death.

As it did, as it must have done.

Oh, si, there was a chance that Augusto was alive, as nothing was said in the report about his body being found, only that he had been dragged away. But the report had been brief by necessity, to be carried by pigeon; she and the others could not know for certain what Augusto's fate would be until the lone Assassino returned to Roma with the news. But judging from the look on Ezio's face, what he must have surmised thanks to his years of experience…

Tacitus hugged herself a little tighter. Si, she had known it, too; she had known as soon as her eyes locked with Ezio's that morning that Augusto was dead. And the rest of the day became lost to her.

Now she stood outside Bartolomeo's encampment near a cliff, as unsure as she was uncaring of how she got there, with the deep waters of the lake below her. The moonlight was dazzling, almost blinding in the night, its reflection skipping over the waves, flickering like firelight. Few citizens were out this late, though she didn't know the time, and those who passed her did not see her. She was nearly invisible, and not because she was an Assassino skilled at blending in, not because of her dark clothing or lack of movement, but because of her dark mood and lack of emotion. She still had not cried.

She didn't hear so much as sense the presence behind her. There was no sound of a footfall, no rustling of fabric, no scent carried on the breeze, but the hairs raised on the back of her neck and the gooseflesh prickling the skin of her arms told her that Ezio stood nearby. She didn't acknowledge him, didn't turn her head or breathe a sigh, but waited for his next move. She somehow sensed he would know she was aware of him, so a nod or other gesture would not be needed. She did take her hands away from her arms, though, allowing them to hang loosely at her sides.

Ezio didn't speak at first. He came up to the cliff, standing beside her as he had done in the alcove that morning, looking with unseeing eyes in the direction she faced. He dropped his hands to his sides as well, near hers but not touching, showing camaraderie through similar attitude. They stood like that for several moments, the only sound the slapping of the water against the rocks far beneath them.

The night was getting cooler, the last of the sun's heat fading with the light. Though only inches separated them, the sensitive skin of her fingers could feel the heat emanating from Ezio's hand. Deep within her she felt the cold indifference melting, giving way to the warmth of another person. Suddenly her mind was full of Augusto, of his face and his laughter and his easy manner. Memories of him flooded her thoughts, drowning her in wave after wave of emotions.

Then the questions came. What truly had become of Augusto? Had Ezio heard any more news? If he was alive, would there be any attempt to rescue him? Or if he proved dead, would they attempt to recover what was left of him? And how long before the returning Assassino reached Roma? And would Il Mentore wish to send another dottore to try again to infiltrate the Roman Count's encampment?

And the worst question of all: Was she responsible for sending Augusto to his death?

She didn't give voice to any of these questions. Her mouth did open to let a choked sort of groan escape, filling the space between them with the potency of her emotions. Physically unable to speak about what tormented her, she could only stand there and sway, staring out over the scene, the beauty lost to her as she was lost to the guilt.

Ezio heard the strangled sound bleed through the other's veil, and he found himself feeling compassion for the slight man. He glanced down to the other's hand, and watched the slender fingers twitch with the dottore's struggle to control himself. He was reminded of his life-long friend, Leonardo, who had the same empathy and compassion, and a suspicion began to grow in his mind. He studied the other man covertly, taking detailed notes of every feature he could see, and every feature he could discern through the bulky clothing. He noticed how deeply, how strongly, Tacitus was reacting to the death of his friend. He watched him drag a ragged breath into his lungs as he stamped down the sorrow spilling into tears. And he waited until the shoulders had all but stopped trembling, until only a slight shiver now and then gave voice to the voiceless dottore's thoughts and feelings.

"I think I understand, Tacitus." His words were as soft as the night breeze, drifting slowly around and underneath her hood to caress her ears. She was so desperate for understanding, for someone to simply know what it was that she could not communicate, she could barely keep herself from seeking comfort in his arms as he continued to speak. "And you have nothing to be ashamed of, nothing to explain or conceal from me. I will not judge you harshly for loving another man. You did love Augusto, didn't you?"

The urge to bury her head against his chest was quickly struck down. Tacitus felt her eyes widen, her tears suddenly stopped with shock. Such a concept… Such a suggestion… That she could… She couldn't stop his words, yet neither could she stop her ears. Numbly she listened as he continued.

"As I said, I am not judging you; I don't feel shocked or offended by one man's love for another. Whatever was between you and Augusto, whether emotional or physical, was between the two of you and no one else's business. I merely wish to express my sympathy. It is not easy to lose someone you care for; and had I known you and Augusto were so close, I would not have sent him on this mission."

If her eyes could have, they would have widened even more. As it was, a small back corner of her mind commented dryly that the orbs must be ready to pop from their sockets. Ezio thought she loved Augusto, and she had to agree—in a way—she did love the effusive dottore. Yet only as a friend, and definitely not as Ezio suggested, as one man loving another man. She turned her shocked face towards him, and when his hand went towards her shoulder in sympathy, she flinched from his touch.

Ezio didn't move right away, his hand still poised over the space her shoulder had just vacated. His brow furrowed slightly as his eyes studied hers, and she feared he might have at last recognized her. "Scusa, Tacitus," he began at last, choosing his words carefully as his hand moved slightly, opening in a friendly manner. "I do not mean to give offense. If I have incorrectly interpreted your relationship, I ask for your pardon. I only surmised, from the force of your reaction to the news, that there was more than friendship between the two of you."

She held herself still, unsure of where this was going. Though he hadn't figured out her identity, or even that she was a woman, the idea of what he did see her as surprised her. She supposed that, si, he was right, in a way—she was someone who would prefer the company of men to the company of women, but not for the reason he was suggesting.

"I stand by what I said before: I do not judge any man harshly for loving another. In fact, one of my oldest and closest friends is a man who loves… well, let's say that women hold no allure for him. He is my dearest friend, and in a sense I suppose I do love him, but not as he might wish it. Regardless of this, he is a good man, an intelligent and wise man, though sometimes a little too excitable or talkative. But I trust no one more than I trust him. Just as Augusto once told me he trusted no one more than you, if he should ever need surgery."

Si, she knew that, too, how Augusto, and Alfonso for that matter, had felt about her. She also know how Alfonso had felt towards Augusto, and only now discovered that it had not bothered her. Certainly at one point in her life, when she had been younger and more faithful in her worship, she might have found such a concept repulsive, or at the very least clicked her tongue in disapproval. Yet she was a different woman now—a different man, one could even argue—and she could not afford the luxury of such judgment without having the word 'hypocrite' thrown into her own face. She was a woman masquerading as a man, after all; equally abominable in the eyes of the Church as what Ezio was suggesting.

"What I'm trying to do, Tacitus, is offer my condolences and a sympathetic shoulder. And let you know that I do not judge you by your personal interests, but by your skills as a dottore. It wouldn't matter if you were married with fifteen children, or openly sleeping with every man who was willing, or even if you were a woman. It is your skills as a dottore I value, and those skills are unmatched."

He wound down, and she still felt herself staring wide-eyed at him, his words echoing within her skull with dagger sharp edges. He wouldn't have minded if she were a woman… that thought made her openly wince. She wondered briefly if she had been wrong to conceal her gender for all these years, but quickly pushed the doubt aside. Despite Ezio's personal feelings, she knew others would not share his open-mindedness. Her patients would not appreciate suddenly finding themselves being attended by a woman. Alfonso—and Augusto when he was alive—would not wish to work side by side with a woman, or even acknowledge a woman's skills as superior to their own, as they unknowingly did now. No, regardless of one man's feelings, society at large still would not accept her for who she was, even if she were a man who loved other men.

But she did appreciate his stance.

Something of her thoughts, some little clue to the path her mind was taking, must have showed in her eyes. Ezio's hand at last found purchase on her shoulder, and his voice was soft as he agreed, "I know not everyone feels the way I do, so I will keep your secret, Tacitus. Your love for Augusto will remain private; you have my word." He paused, holding her gaze as the tears struggled to fall once more. When he continued, his voice was warm and deep. "You did love him, didn't you?"

She didn't know at first what to answer. She wasn't sure how to explain her love towards Augusto, the closeness she felt, the trust, the hurt now that he was gone—she may not have loved him as a man, but she loved him as a friend. But how to explain it to Ezio, explain it was only platonic, without giving everything away—her gender, her identity…? She shook her head, not in answer to his question, but in frustration over her inability to communicate. She panted, taking several deep breaths, steeling herself for the pain she was about to endure, and spoke a single word, "Alfonso."

Ezio looked taken aback, his hood almost sliding off his head. "Ah… Al… Alfonso? And Augusto? I hadn't realized. Scusa, Tacitus, for my assumption, I only thought… with how strongly you reacted to the news… that the two of you had been close… but if it were Alfonso who…" he stared at something only he could see, his stuttering coming to an end. "Si, si," he nodded to himself. "Alfonso did take the news hard, though not as overtly as you have. But he, too, cared for—loved Augusto; I can see it now. Again, Tacitus, I ask for your pardon. I hope I have not given offense."

She shook her head in the negative just once.

Suddenly, it was as if that one simple movement shook loose a dam. The tears escaped in a torrent, spilling down her cheeks and soaking her veil. Lost in her sea of mourning, it was several heartbeats before she realized that Ezio had moved closer to her. His hand now gripped her shoulder tightly, as if it could physically stem the flood. Yet no matter how desperately she wanted it, how desperately she needed it, he didn't move to take her into his arms. She was hurt at first, not understanding why he kept her so distant. Then she realized that he still thought of her as a man. And Ezio was not a man who would hold another man that way if he were crying, not the way he would hold a woman—the way she wanted to be held. Her body ached, the pain hitting her like a heavy blow to her back, rocking her on the balls of her feet. She wanted to be held; she wanted another's arms around her, comforting her as she wept. She swayed, at the mercy of the tide of her emotions, wishing she had never lied to Ezio about her identity, if only so that at this one moment he might offer her comfort.

When his other hand brushed her other shoulder, almost as if he at long last was about to hold her, a weak and watery whimper escaped her throat.

When Ezio had seen the tears begin to fall, he wasn't sure how to react. That the silent dottore felt some sort of emotion towards his colleague, he was certain and willing to accept. That it was Alfonso who loved and was loved by Augusto, he could also accept.

Yet that didn't explain Tacitus' continued emotional pain, and the sudden forceful weeping was beyond Ezio's ability to cope with. If Tacitus had been a woman, he would have instantly swept her into his arms and held her until the storm passed, and in fact he found himself taking a half-step closer as if about to do that very thing. He stopped himself in time, however, not wishing to confuse the slight dottore. Ezio had just confessed that he was not at all interested in men; if he were to hold Tacitus now, hold him while he mourned his friend, hold him as he would hold a woman, whisper meaningless words how everything would be alright, distract her with kisses and caresses and compassion…

Ezio mentally slapped himself, breaking off that line of thought. No, Tacitus was a man, and what a man needed at a time like this was not lies of comfort, but a chance to grow his own inner strength. So Ezio held himself still, feeling the other man's pain, but allowing him the opportunity to pull his emotions into check. He did find himself wishing that Tacitus would gain control a little faster, however; the wordless dottore could shed enough tears to put a woman to shame. Then when Tacitus swayed, Ezio's other hand instinctively reached out to grab hold of his other shoulder.

At almost the same time, a weak sort of moan escaped from beneath the veil. Ezio pulled back almost instantly, afraid that he had hurt the slight man. Though nearly perfectly concealed beneath the heavy layers of fabric, he had felt the toughened and twisted scars of the other's upper arm. He wasn't sure, as yet again he was distracted by some sort of tickling memory he couldn't quite grasp, but he thought the scarring might be severe enough to cause pain if handled roughly, such as when he reached out to grip his shoulder. Regardless, he felt the dottore was in enough pain as it was, and he forced himself to back away and give the man some room to breathe.

"Your pardon, dottore, again," he mumbled, "I seem to be asking that of you a lot this evening. But truly, I had no intention of hurting you."

Tacitus' tears were beginning to dry, and this strange topic caused her to look up once more at his face, the bewilderment helping to dry her tears. Hurting her? Was he still talking about Augusto's death? Or her supposed love for another man? Ezio seemed to sense her confusion and gestured as he answered, "Your shoulder, does it pain you often?"

Again, his words seemed strange. She thought about it a moment, blinking several times to clear away the last of the moisture and giving herself time to answer. Slowly she began to understand; he had been holding her by the left shoulder and recently had gripped her right shoulder. He must have somehow felt the scars, even underneath several layers of fabric and leather. Surprised now at his perceptive abilities, she could only nod her head once, numbly, again allowing him to think a lie rather than reveal the truth. She wished she could stop making a habit of lying, despite being nearly voiceless.

Ezio was silent a moment, and she feared he may have seen through her deceitfulness. When he spoke, however, his voice still held the sympathetic softness he had shown her all evening. "It is cold out here. We should return to the encampment before we're missed. Besides, I don't think either of us would appreciate a night's swim if we were to accidentally slip and fall into the lake."

His tone was suggestive, though at first she couldn't discern what he could be suggesting. She nodded, her short and somewhat formal bow, agreeing to return with him to Bartolomeo's fortress.

His arm was across her shoulders as they started out, steering her with him away from the cliff. His grip was firm, but his manner was a little too considerate as he guided her down the road. It was not the concern he would show if he thought she was a woman, but it was very genuine and compassionate. In a flash she realized what it was: he thought she was suicidal. After all, she had disappeared from the encampment only to be found staring blankly at deep waters surrounded by jagged rocks. She could see how he might think such a thing, finding her there alone and believing she loved Augusto, how she might wish to end her life after her lover's death. Though truthfully she and Augusto had not been lovers, Ezio hadn't known that until just now. He had only known she had reacted strongly to Augusto's death, uncharacteristically for a man, and he had found her staring out over a cliff.

Si, such a thing sounded suicidal, she had to admit. But would she have done such a thing, if Ezio hadn't found her and interrupted her?

A burst of light flashed in front of her, and her dark and gloomy thoughts were interrupted by a warm and comforting atmosphere. She blinked, surprised to find herself back within the encampment so quickly. She had been so deep in her thoughts that she hadn't noticed their journey had ended. She stopped suddenly, causing Ezio's hand to slip from her shoulder, and looked around at the hallway they had just entered. Everything was familiar, from the sconces to the rugs, from the tapestries to the faces. All of those faces glanced up at her entrance. All of those faces were smiling, acknowledging her with a salute or a greeting. All of those faces belonged to men and women who owed life or limb to her. All of those faces helped her realize one very unfathomable truth.

She was not suicidal. She had already suffered the death of loved ones, and if she had killed herself after Gavino's death, all those faces smiling up at her tonight may not have been here. And if she killed herself tonight, how many more future faces would end up lost because she wasn't around to heal them? In coming to work with the mercenaries, and subsequently the Assassini, she had become a piece of a purpose, a task, a fate that was larger than herself. And she was a necessary piece. No, she would not end her life simply because she had lost a dear friend, no matter the pain—there was so much more she needed to live for, so much more yet for her to do, so many more lives to touch and heal. Even if Augusto's life was over, she still had her lifetime before her.

Despite being a Master Assassin—Il Mentore, even… despite being skilled in stealth and secrets and vanishing from sight… Ezio could still be painfully obvious. She turned to give him her best stare, the strongest expression she could convey with so much of her face covered, and lifted an eyebrow questioningly.

Ezio was watching Tacitus closely, continuing to be concerned over his emotional state despite his earlier assurance that it was Alfonso who loved Augusto. But when their gazes met, he found Tacitus' eyes to be clear and bright with his newfound inner strength, he knew they had turned a corner. Though the depression wasn't banished entirely, he was now equipped to fight it, and he knew Ezio was the one who had shown him that strength. "Grazie, Il Mentore," his deep, breathy voice sighed, barely loud enough to reach his ears.

"For what?" he asked, feigning innocence. He hadn't intended to be so transparent when he first asked Marco to arrange for certain mercenaries to wait in the front hall this evening, but was still glad for Tacitus' apparent recovery. He had already caused Bartolomeo to lose one good dottore; he did not wish to lose another. Watching Tacitus' eyes as he looked up at him, Ezio saw the dark blue orbs glow with a warmth and a twinkle that hadn't been there earlier. The sight was familiar, and he wondered briefly where he had seen such unusual eyes before, yet the dottore was already turning away, going to tend to others' hurts as always. Ezio shook off the strange feeling and turned his attention to other matters, filing away the strange familiarity to be pondered another time.


	6. Madonnas

**Author's Note: I've posted it already on my other two stories—the reason for my long absence—and I truly do not want to go through it again, but you all deserve to know…**

 **I am sorry, my dears, so very, very, very sorry for my long absence. I cannot even begin to tell you all that has been happening to me these past several months. I've always thought: Courage is not the lack of having fears, but the act of doing what must be done in the face of those fears. And I… I am a coward.**

 **I have come face-to-face with several of my deepest, darkest, most secretive fears. That I have survived these encounters is obvious, but it wasn't without earning my own scars. Scars, and emotions, which have held me in a suspension of writer's block, far too afraid of putting words on the page lest these overwhelming emotions take over and leave me shaken and broken and blubbering.**

 **It took more than two months before I could even look at a story, much less tap into my muse and open up that Pandora's box of emotion within me that I feared would have no bottom and which might lead to me expelling far too much of my self, my emotions, into the aforementioned words.**

 **But writing is cathartic for me. Therapeutic. Even as necessary as air and food and water on occasion. And though it pained me to write, I discovered a strength inside me, an ability to fight and overcome my fears… and I know I have finally started to heal.**

 **Thank you, all of you, for your patience with me, for your reviews, for simply reading my stories and being there and reminding me that I'm not alone. I know I am stronger for having survived, but I am even stronger for having you. *HUGS***

 **Chapter Six: Madonnas**

Assassin Tower Roma: 1504

The evening was cool, brisk with the lingering presence of winter, and yet the promise of spring could often be felt on a warmer breeze coming from the southeast. Three figures, dressed darkly, walked their horses at a measured pace, working their way through the crowded streets of Roma. Two of these wore the distinctive and sometimes-sought-for/sometimes-feared attire of dottores. The third was dressed less remarkably, wearing the tunic and leggings of a common citizen, though the black vest that covered his back and shoulders was stiff and thick. He rode his horse between and a little ways behind the other two, taking the pose of a servant or retainer or guard. Whatever his role, whatever their destination, the three were in no hurry, and rode through the streets in silence.

It was not often that Tacitus visited The Tower, especially with Alfonso in tow. Oh, she had been there once or twice over the past several months, and so had he, to tend to the members of the Brotherhood after one of their more epic battles—but never had they both been asked to come at the same time. The Brotherhood had their own dottores, and Bartolomeo continued to need his own dottores, so for both Tacitus and Alfonso to be summoned…

She tried not to think of it.

Though he was never spoken of between herself and Alfonso, she knew they both held their fellow dottore, Augusto, heavy in their hearts. Ezio had promised them news of Augusto's fate months ago, almost a year, but he had yet to deliver. The lack of news—of any response, really, even just a mention that they were still looking for Augusto—was wearing on both herself and Alfonso. But mostly on Alfonso.

Tacitus stole a glance at her fellow dottore from beneath the wide brim of her hat. He was staring blankly ahead, trusting his horse to follow hers through the city, his eyes focused on something only he could see. The skin of his face was sallow and his cheeks sunken, giving mute testimony of his poor eating and sleeping habits. His hands, too, were trembling where they rested on his thigh, his fingers loose around the reins. Of course, he never allowed his worry over his friend to interfere with the tending of his patients, finding a strength and focus that Tacitus had to admire. If anything, the wounded and sick gave him something to think about other than Augusto, and he often was sharper and more efficient in the middle of surgery than at any other time.

But the stress and worry was draining on him, both of them, the state of limbo, of not knowing, of wanting to hold out hope that Augusto was still somehow alive and at the same time fearing that he was dead and all the while wishing someone could find out something so they could either rejoice…

…or allow themselves to finish grieving.

Tacitus had tried to help, such as she could, making sure Alfonso ate at least once a day and went to his bed at night, though she had no idea if he slept. The act of caring for her friend gave her something to think about other than Augusto.

Though that wasn't helping her tonight, not with both of them being summoned to come together. It had to be… at long last… some word or sign or… dare she hope… Augusto himself…?

A cough from behind alerted her that she had been wandering in her thoughts almost as much as Alfonso. She felt herself blush beneath her veil as she took stock of her environment. They hadn't strayed off course, thankfully, but if she didn't stop soon then they would have walked their horses right past the Tower. She pulled on the reins, slowing her mount and easing him to a stop. Alfonso's mount followed suit, after going on a step or two before looking back, as if asking his fellow equine whether he wouldn't rather walk a little further. The horse behind them gave a whinny, her horse answering a moment later, and then she smelled it: fresh hay.

That decided it, for the horses, at least. Three Assassin novices, she could tell they were such by the veils they wore, came out to take the reins of their mounts and see to their care. Tacitus handed over her reins, gratefully dismounting and taking a moment or two to stretch her legs. Though she actually liked riding astride a horse—like a man—rather than sidesaddle—like a woman—she did not ride often enough to make the experience, erm, comfortable. There was a slight wince in one corner of her eye as she felt at a sore spot on her buttocks, but when a hand reached out to touch her arm and lend support, she quickly brushed it off, giving Marco a hard stare.

"What, Messer Tacitus?" the former-mercenary-turned-personal-bodyguard gave her his most innocent smile.

She wanted to scold him for his cockiness in offering her help; he should require assistance before her. It had been a long recovery for him after being shot in the back. Though he could walk without assistance, he continued to be stiff first thing in the morning and occasionally, at odd times during the day, he would appear to suffer a spasm or be on the verge of collapsing. Yet he persevered, and not only walked but worked to regain his strength and practice his skills. He also took his vow seriously: she had not only saved his life but given him back the use of his legs; he was now her man, her servant, her guard, and more and more often her voice.

"I believe we are expected inside, no?" Marco gestured to the entrance of the Tower. "It would not do to keep Il Mentore waiting."

"Scusa," one of the novices bowed to them, "But Il Mentore is still absent. His sister, Madonna Claudia, is the one who has asked you to visit."

"And where can we find Madonna Claudia?" Again Marco did the talking, as Tacitus simply could not and Alfonso did not appear to have the courage.

"In Il Mentore's office, the suite of rooms at the highest part of the Tower."

It was Marco's turn to wince. "Grazie."

"Nessun problema."

With the three of them on their feet, and the horses being seen to, there was no more stalling. Marco looked upwards, his neck stretching and his throat bobbing with a swallow. "Cazzo, but that's a long way up."

Tacitus agreed, thinking to herself she'd have to watch both Marco and Alfonso all the way up the countless flights of stairs—a daunting effort if ever there was one—as the other dottore seemed more and more reluctant to come out of his brown study the closer they got to their destination. Thinking that the sooner a distasteful task is over the better, she took her friends' elbows and started them towards the entrance. She had been to Ezio's office before and knew the way.

The climb went better than expected; even though the Tower was several stories high, it had been built haphazardly, additions made throughout the years, so there was not one single stairwell to take to the top. The occasional walk down a hallway or stepping through a doorway gave Marco a much needed reprieve from constant climbing. And Alfonso, though growing quieter if that were possible, gave no protest nor sign that he would not be able to reach the top.

At long last they ran out of stairs, and after taking a moment herself to catch her breath, Tacitus nodded to the appropriate door. Marco took her hint and approached it ahead of them, knocking on the solid wooden portal and waiting for an answer before turning the latch and opening the door.

Claudia was sitting at Ezio's desk, sorting through mounds of messages and reports associated with all the Brotherhood was doing in Roma—and throughout Europe! That the Assassins had their fingers in a lot of pies was not new to Claudia, but wondering how Ezio could keep track of everything while working on recovering the Apple and tracking down Cesare…

"Bah!" she griped to herself, slapping yet another report down on the desk and wishing her brother was there now to handle matters. Though she didn't want him there just to handle the paperwork—she had managed their uncle's estate for over a decade, after all, and had turned around the Rosa in Fiore here in Roma in only a few months. But there were other parts of being the leader of the Brotherhood that were less than satisfactory, parts like this evening, the little side project that he had started and now had inadvertently left in her hands to wrap up…

As if summoned by her thoughts, or diavolo himself, there was a knock on the door, and she knew it to be the two mercenary dottores. "Come in!" Claudia barked, then upon hearing the sternness of her voice, got angry with herself for being so rude. Tonight was not going to be easy; she shouldn't start out by making it so difficult.

Hoping that her poor mood had been muffled by the thick door, she stood to greet her visitors. When she was confronted with not two, but three men, her eyes narrowed suspiciously. "I thought there were only two dottores." Apparently, she was simply spoiling for a fight too much to act graciously.

"Scusa, Madonna Assassino," Marco bowed, standing behind and between the other two, taking the woman's manner in stride. "I am Marco, an associate of sorts, for Messer Tacitus. I only presumed my presence would be welcomed because of, erm, certain tasks I perform for my master. I will, of course, wait out in the hall. Scusa." He started backing towards the still opened doorway, but Claudia spoke again before he could make his escape.

"No, no, don't mind me. I'm in a foul mood, that is all. Well, that and…" she at once granted permission for Marco to stay, and changed her mind to place the decision on the dottores' shoulders, "…I have information for the two of you, of a personal and sensitive matter. I don't know who this Marco is," she flicked her fingers at the guard, "Or how much you trust him. If you wish for him to stay, then of course he may stay. That is for you to decide." She walked around to stand in front of the desk and lean against it, crossing her arms and waiting for their decision.

Tacitus answered, nonverbally, by stepping further into the room. Alfonso followed, far too willing to allow someone else to make the decisions and, after pausing long enough to close the door, Marco took up his former position.

"Va bene." Claudia sounded neither pleased nor affronted, nor even concerned, over Marco's continued presence. She had enough on her mind already, like how she was going to deliver the news. Her head was pounding with the stress of command, but she at last managed to find a drop or two of common courtesy, knowing how difficult the next few moments were going to be for all of them. "Scusa, dottores, forgive my rudeness. No doubt you have traveled for a time to get here and have missed supper. Please, take a seat, make yourselves comfortable," she motioned to the chairs before the desk, trying to ignore the fact there were only two. "Would you care for any refreshments? I could send for something." She leaned away from the desk, her hand already reaching towards the bell pull, eager to put off her chore for as long as possible.

The smallest of the three, the one presumed to be this Tacitus who somehow required the assistance of Marco, gave a slight and stiff shake of his head before taking the proffered chair, sitting on the edge very stiff and straight. The other dottore, Claudia wished their names had been written down for her somewhere but Ezio hadn't been planning on being absent for this, also gave a negative shake of his head before slumping distractedly into the other chair. Marco maintained his position faithfully, a little ways away to give the illusion of privacy, while remaining close enough to be able to step in when warranted.

It was warranted now. As no one else seemed willing to start, he gave a low bow and pretended a cough, taking half a step forward, all the while keeping his submissive posture. "Scusa, Assassino Auditore," he began.

"Claudia," she corrected. "Though I have lived all my life with the Assassini, I have only recently joined their ranks; I'm not used to the title as of yet."

"Madonna Claudia," Marco nodded, straightening up a little. He felt her eyes studying him, scrutinizing every stance and movement, and tried not to feel self-conscious as he continued, "Prego, allow me to speak for all of us, as I often do for Messer Tacitus," he nodded to his friend, his savior, his debt-holder. "I know he, and Messer Alfonso," he gestured to the other dottore, and Claudia felt a moment of gratitude over the associate's tactfulness in offering the name, "Though neither one of them would dare voice it—if they could—are very concerned over their friend, Augusto, whom you must know had volunteered for a mission with the Assassini. Please, if you have anything to say regarding him, any news at all, please tell us. Even bad news would be better than silence, at this point."

Claudia wondered over Marco's position with the two dottores. He claimed himself an associate, someone who helped the one dottore Tacitus—something to do with speaking, did he let that slip?—though the man looked more than competent enough to take care of himself. It was the other dottore, Alfonso, who looked in dire need of attention. Yet Marco's placement, though between the two, leaned closer to Tacitus. Also, he stood with the solid feet of a soldier, and the loose shoulders and relaxed hands of a man who was often prepared to fight at a moment's notice. His lithe though athletic build spoke undoubtedly of an ability to run for miles without flagging. Knowing the dottores worked with Bartolomeo's mercenaries, she supposed Marco was one of those, a self-appointed bodyguard, though why either of these two would need protection she could not fathom.

The silence had gone on for too long she realized, as Alfonso finally began to climb out of his depression and lift his eyes up to her. His face was gaunt beneath his hat, his hands pressed tightly against his thighs to keep them from shaking. But it was his eyes, rimmed with red and puffy lids, daring to light that last spark of hope, that nearly broke her heart. Quickly she brushed aside all emotion, all tenderness, lest she too fall into tearfulness, and leaned back against the desk once more. "Si, I do have news of your friend, Dottore Augusto." She paused again, her reluctance giving more information than her words ever could. "As you may recall, we had two Assassini assigned to accompanying your friend, to follow from a safe distance. They have just returned."

She walked around to behind the desk, no longer able to meet Alfonso's eyes, and not daring to look at Tacitus' lest he, too, be as close to tears as his coworker. She picked up the report that detailed their mission, their failure, and though she did not need to read from it, she pretended she wanted to keep her facts straight. Besides, it gave her another moment before having to tell them the bad news. "Our men did not see what had happened to Augusto after he'd been beaten and taken away that one morning. For two days they watched the camp, but Augusto was not seen again. They tried to discover his fate, even went so far as to accost a pair of soldiers and steal their uniforms so they could infiltrate the camp. But Augusto was gone. There was no sign of him anywhere in the camp, no tent where he might have been held, no manifest that he had left on any of the caravans over the past two days. No report or note at all to say what had become of the dottore. He had simply vanished. We can only assume that after he'd been beaten, perhaps because of the beating, he had died and the Templars had disposed of the body. I am sorry." She lifted her eyes at long last to Tacitus, to see the smaller dottore staring at her with compassion. She wanted to laugh at the reversal; here she had just delivered bad news to them, and they were offering her comfort?

Well, only one of them. Alfonso, it seemed, had finally come to life. "You're sorry," he repeated, then escalated his voice, the force of his words slapping her in the face as he sprang to his feet, "You're SORRY!"

Claudia, despite years of living and working with Assassins, despite her own training and experience, despite her own strength and convictions and guiltlessness, flinched beneath the rage within his words.

"Puttana!" he fired at her, calling her a whore. "You're sorry. You sit there, behind your desk, dressed in your Assassini attire, spouting words of brotherhood and righteousness and freedom, but you do not care. You are not truly sorry. You stole our brother from us! You tempted him with this grand plan of pretending to be an Assassino himself. You sent him to his DEATH! Fottiti!" Alfonso almost leaped from his chair, his hands no longer shaking but curved into talons, spittle foaming at the corners of his mouth while he had been shouting.

Tacitus gave a heavy exhale, hardly more than a whisper, but something Marco obviously both heard and understood. The man lunged forward and wrapped his arms around Alfonso before he could take his first step towards Claudia. Alfonso didn't seem to know what he wanted to do, at first confused as to why he could no longer walk, and then as to why he was locked within Marco's grasp. Instinctively he began struggling to break free, sputtering all the while, flecks of foam flying from him to land over the desk, the floor, the chair. The two men tussled around, spinning, knocking into and over furniture as they grappled, expending energy and violence and impotent rage with as little actual destruction as possible. At long last he broke away from Marco and staggered blindly forward, not seeing he was heading towards the door.

And Tacitus. The smaller dottore stood in his way, silent and still, and allowed Alfonso to stumble into him. When Alfonso cursed, when he grabbed the other's shoulders and attempted to shove him out of his way, Tacitus returned the embrace and… held on. Claudia watched in amazement as the slight dottore somehow managed to hold on. Alfonso flapped and slapped and shouted, but Tacitus remained calm and stoic and silent, until the last of the energy and hate and fear was bled out of Alfonso and he collapsed against the smaller man. Tacitus continued to stand there, strong and silent, supporting and holding up his friend, even though his own heart had to be breaking, even though his own tears needed shedding.

"Cazzo…" Alfonso moaned into Tacitus' shoulder, dropping to his knees, taking the other with him, but the fury was passing.

Claudia finally realized she had been holding her breath, and let it out with a verbal whoosh. She wasn't sure what had just happened, but sensed that Alfonso's grief was stronger than mere friendship. She looked to Marco, who refused to meet her gaze and instead was watching the two dottores intently. She got the distinct impression that if it came down to it, Marco would chose to protect Tacitus rather than Alfonso, and though he waited for some sort of sign or signal from him, none was given. Yet he remained alert.

Tacitus was also waiting, waiting for Alfonso to grieve, waiting for herself to grieve. Though she had already considered in her heart, despite trying to hold on to hope, that Augusto was dead… though she had longed for any news, even bad news, to at last put all the questions to rest… though she had known she would need answers so she could reach beyond purgatory and finish mourning her friend… It was still very hard to hear those words. Especially when she realized that they didn't even have a body to mourn over, no grave to mark the memory of the man he had been. They, she and Alfonso, had only their remembrances with which to keep him. She gave a tremble, a little shake, squeezing her eyes shut against the tears, knowing it was unmanly to cry, but then again Alfonso was weeping, weeping enough for all of them.

He seemed to think this as well, coming back to himself and pushing away from Tacitus just a bit. He gave a short bark of noise, somewhere between a bitter laugh and a choked sob, and let go of his friend to rub one hand over his face. It didn't go very far in wiping away the mess and the moisture, but it worked well enough. He looked at his friend, who looked back with eyes equally red and wet, and nodded his head. "I'm alright now," he spoke softly, and though she was loathe to let go, she also knew she couldn't hold on to Alfonso if he wished to pull away. So she stood with him, one hand lending support, her eyes watchful and intent, and allowed him to gain his feet.

"Scusa, Madonna Auditore," he turned back to Claudia, but his eyes only reached as far as her waist. "My actions… they were deplorable… the mark of a bastardo and ungracious beast, not a man. I…" he pressed his lips together briefly, took a few whistling breaths through his half-clogged nostrils, before he could continue. "I know it is not an easy task to deliver bad news; such a chore is an occupational hazard we often face," one hand pressed against his chest while the other swept in Tacitus. "I have seen the full spectrum of human behavior before, of course, but never imagined I'd learn where I would fall along that scope, much less that I would be so… disgusting. I am ashamed of myself—of my reaction. Those words were unearned, unfounded, unforgivable. But I pray you, if it is possible, forgive me, or at the very least, forget my actions."

She wasn't sure what to do, but glancing at Tacitus and catching the man give a short and formal nod, she offered a curtsy, "Of course, it is forgotten already."

He looked at her then, looked at her and offered a forced and self-deprecating smile in response, "Grazie."

Marco at last moved, sensing or somehow understanding a silent message from Tacitus that it was time to depart. "Ahem, we should be going, Madonna Auditore, the ride back to the encampment is long and it will be well after midnight before we get there. Grazie mille for taking the time to personally let us know what happened."

"You are welcomed to spend the night, and start your journey fresh in the morning," she offered, only a bit hesitantly, still a little wary of Alfonso's volatile reaction to the news.

Tacitus and Marco again exchanged a look, conducting some sort of nonverbal converse behind Alfonso's back. "No, grazie," again Marco was the one who spoke, "We would not wish to impose."

"No imposition, I assure you," Claudia denied, "It is the least I could do, after all that… well, after everything…"

"No, we should…"

"Does the Brotherhood still need a dottore to finish this mission?"

Alfonso's question broke through the awkward goodbye, pinning everyone to the spot. Claudia swallowed, half wishing they would simply leave and half wishing Ezio had been here to handle his mess himself! But in looking at their faces, she realized that both of these dottores—both of these men who dedicated their lives to saving lives, not taking them—were willing to risk their lives as their friend had done. Though neither one was an Assassin, they had worked with Assassins long enough to understand what the Order stood for—the struggle against the Templars and the importance of the Pieces of Eden—and what was at stake in this matter.

"Oh, ah, no, dottores, grazie for the offer, but no. We have decided to watch the Roman Count's encampment for the time being. We are fairly certain he is communicating with his men through that hub, coordinating supplies and transferring information throughout his organization. By continuing to watch and track all the comings and goings, it will only be a matter of time before one of these caravans or couriers leads us to him. And, God willing, to the artifact. We will not risk any more lives on perilous ventures."

Tacitus seemed to understand. He gave another of his stiff and peculiar bows, his hand reaching for Alfonso's elbow as if to lead him away. Marco, too, was observant of the other dottore after his emotional outburst and looked to be ushering him along, maintaining a position that protected both Tacitus and now Claudia. She supposed she should be thankful for the gesture, but her hidden blade beneath her sleeve was all the protection she needed. Alfonso resisted for a moment, looking as if he wanted to say something more, but realized that the audience was at an end.

As Tacitus opened the door, an Assassin novice burst into their way. She was young and fresh and bright-eyed, her veil askew and flowing in and out with her breath. "Madonna! Madonna Claudia! I have a… Oh! Scusa, I did not know… I should have knocked… I see that now… but I have a message… it's urgent… about your mother…"

"What?" Claudia was there, somehow getting around them all to stand before Tacitus and receive the slip of paper from the novice.

"Will there be a reply?" the novice had the sense to ask. When Claudia did nothing more than frown at the brief missive, the Assassin recruit began shifting nervously from foot to foot. "Madonna…?"

"What?" Claudia repeated unthinkingly. "Oh, no, no, no reply, I will answer it myself, in person."

The novice seemed thankful her services were no longer required and eager to be on her way. She bowed formally, her left hand cradled over her heart, and muttered, "Scusa." Then she turned and was gone.

No one moved. It was not only because Claudia stood in the doorway, blocking their egress. Tacitus knew, somehow, probably because she was a woman herself, but she knew the news was not good. Not having any clue what the message could be, but fearing the worst and wishing to offer comfort, she set a hand on Claudia's arm. Though a very minimal act, it was enough to break the woman from the spell she was under.

Claudia looked down at the hand touching her. It was a very compassionate gesture, only the fingertips touching the fabric of her sleeve, the thin and deft fingers applying just enough pressure to be felt. It was… very effeminate, and she quickly began reconsidering the mysteriously silent Dottore Tacitus. "Scusa, I… but of course, you were just leaving, and yet…"

Tacitus glanced to Marco, who quickly responded, "What is it, Madonna Claudia? Tacitus wishes to know."

The mentioned dottore was indeed still at her side, still maintaining that gentle contact, still looking at her with deep blues eyes overflowing with compassion and care and selflessness. Staring back into those eyes, drowning in them, Claudia felt like a heel and uncharacteristically floundered for her next words. "I feel… I do not have the right to ask this of you, either of you… especially after what has just happened…" Her words trailed off, at a loss, as she looked from between Tacitus to Alfonso—who continued to avoid her gaze—and Marco.

"Madonna?" Marco's voice was as gentle and considerate as Tacitus' touch on her arm.

Claudia crumpled the note in her hand, not wishing to involve these dottores, not after tonight, but… "It's mia mamma, my mother, she… I just got news that she collapsed… I don't know… if she's sick… or simply stumbled and stubbed her toe… or what happened, but…"

Tacitus moved her hand, upwards, and gripped the other's shoulder. It pained her, as she knew it would, but she bravely spoke for herself, "I come."

Claudia was shocked, both by the acceptance of her plea, and by the voice that came out from behind that veil, dark and dusty, like an unused room full of shadows and cobwebs. It was too hard to tell, if she felt more gratitude that the dottore would risk such pain to speak to her personally in an effort to allay her fears, or that he was willing to offer his services to her mother despite the horrible fate his companion had suffered thanks to the Assassins. "Grazie," she breathed, her own voice now equally dry and husky, showing an unusual amount of gratitude in her manner. On any other man, it might have served to charm him, but the slight man actually seemed flustered by the gratefulness. "Grazie mille."

Tacitus paused a moment, not sure how to respond, then decided on her usual stiff and formal bow, before turning to Marco. The guard-mercenary-voice-whatever-the-hell-he-was seemed to disagree with whatever Tacitus was silently communicating. They stared at each other for a few moments, before Marco set his chin stubbornly, his eyes narrowed, and his voice sounded contrastingly clear. "No."

For an answer, Tacitus' eyes merely flickered to Alfonso, who continued to slump in his stance, his gaze lowered and unseeing, his mindset apathetic and far too willing to allow the world to turn without him. Marco knew he had lost the argument, without a single word being said, but he was not admitting defeat willingly. "Va bene, we will split up. First I will see Alfonso safely home. But THEN I will come and meet you… wait, where will you be?"

"The Rosa in Fiore," Claudia supplied. "I, my mother and I, run it for the Assassini."

Marco blew a whistle out between his teeth, and an eager leer latched itself on his lips. "I will be there by morning." He leaned in closer, hoping his voice wouldn't reach Claudia's ears, and added, "Eh, Tacitus, you lucky cur, that is the best brothel in all of Roma. Hopefully this madonna has merely stubbed her toe, and while you are waiting for me, you can sample some of the wares, no? But save me some, too."

Tacitus rolled her eyes, not at all interested in sampling anything, but Marco didn't need to know that—or why she wasn't interested.

Claudia cleared her throat, possibly having heard Marco, possibly impatient to be on their way. Tacitus acknowledged her with a nod and gestured towards the door.

"Your bag, it is on your horse, down in the stables," Marco called after them. "And do not worry about Alfonso and I; we will get home safely. Come, dottore, let's go home and get you to bed…"

Tacitus didn't hear much more of what Marco said to her fellow dottore, as she had to focus on hastening after Claudia. The woman, having secured the services of a dottore, was eager to reach her mother and took every possible shortcut through the Tower. Tacitus couldn't blame her for that. No doubt, as Marco suggested, it was some minor injury the mother had suffered, but since a message had been sent to Claudia, it could be something more serious. Tacitus decided not to speculate; they would be there soon enough, and then she could see and assess for herself.

And meet the mother of Ezio. Now, SHE would have to be a formidable woman, to have raised a son like Ezio, and this daughter Claudia who raced before her. What love she inspired, what loyalty, that her workers would send for her daughter, that her daughter would drop everything and rush to her side, that her son… Va bene, her son was absent, but he obviously did not know of his mother's episode, quite possibly could not be reached, but surely if he had been here at the Tower he would be racing with them. Whatever the excuse, she would reserve judgement on Ezio's actions for the time being.

But to meet the Matron of the Auditore family herself…

Outside the evening had passed well into night, the streets all but empty of citizens. They made good time on horseback, despite the erratic route through the city. Claudia instinctually, and no doubt due to her Assassin training, avoided the sentries stationed at various intersections and dodged any patrolling guards. Despite these little sidesteps and reroutes, it was well before midnight when they arrived at the brothel near the Tiber river. Absently Tacitus wondered why they couldn't have taken a boat, if it would not have been faster, but then remembered that her bag of medicines had been with her horse. Whatever the reason, they had reached their destination, and a pair of courtesans were already standing at the doors, waiting eagerly for their arrival.

"Madonna, your mother, she wanted us to tell you…"

Claudia did not pause long enough for them to finish, far too eager to find out for herself whatever state the matron was in. With well-practiced skill she nudged her horse, urging it away from the main entrance and around the side of the building. Tacitus didn't stop either to hear what the courtesans had to say, deciding it would be more prudent to keep up with Claudia—if at all possible. They raced down an alley along the side of the brothel, made a sharp turn just before reaching the river, and came to an abrupt dead end. In surprise—and a little fear—Tacitus sharply reined her horse in to avoid ending up either splattered against the building or diving out over the water. Claudia, however, did quite the opposite. She let go, trusting the horse to preserve himself while she single-mindedly focused on her destination. She sprang from her saddle and arced gracefully through the air, hands before her and reaching for the beams of the awning surrounding a small garden. Even as Tacitus' horse reared and protested the rough handling, Claudia swung herself on the beam, channeling her momentum and changing course, to swing herself over the gate and land safely inside the garden. And on her feet.

Tacitus was not so lucky or skilled. She ended up as she feared she might, slipping off the back of her rearing horse and landing on the street—on her backside. Her bag of medicines also fell off the saddle, miraculously, as it appeared her horse was on the verge of bolting. It backed away from her and her pack, easing her fears of the animal trampling her vials of tonics and jars of salves and packets of powders. She gave a long and slow groan for the pain and awkwardness and embarrassment before clutching the strap of her satchel and struggling her feet. Claudia, thankfully, hadn't seen her humiliating dismount, already through the garden and inside the brothel. Nor, it appeared, had the courtesans who were just now joining her, a half-dozen girls flowing through the suddenly opened gate, two to assist Tacitus while the rest did their best to secure the horses. She pushed the distractions from her mind and, with her bag safe and secure in one hand and the other fending off the courtesans' overly-familiar touches—it simply would not do for those skilled appendages to discover what was beneath her dottore's attire—she at long last entered the Rosa in Fiore.

"I told them I did not wish for them to send for you, or Ezio," an older woman's voice, overflowing with the years and love and endurance of a lifetime, found its way through all of Tacitus' layers of clothing and veil and hood to reach her ears and warm her heart. "I simply lost my footing, stumbled over a crease in the rug, nothing more."

"Mamma…" though the daughter, Claudia's voice was full of gentle reproach, "The girls would not have sent word, if you were not hurt, And you were. Look at your cheek."

"It is a slight bruise," she argued, "Easily disguised with a bit rouge, and even quicker to disappear. Besides, you have ungraciously left your guest out in the courtyard. Come in, dottore, and be welcome."

Tacitus did not hesitate any longer, her loitering on the stoop to snoop having been discovered. Feigning unconcern, she passed from the garden into what appeared to be an office, judging by the heavy desk dominating the room and the bookshelf overflowing with ledgers and journals and small chests. The two woman were near the center, the older sitting in the chair before the desk and Claudia looming above with her arms crossed and her face as dark as her hair. She leaned back as Tacitus entered, allowing for the first view of the Matron. Tacitus was not disappointed.

As her voice had implied, the woman was older, her hair and skin gray with her many years, but that's where any obvious sign of old age ended. Her eyes were bright and clear, as quick to focus on the new target Tacitus as they had been to focus on her daughter. Tacitus returned the gaze with as much, if not more intensity. She studied the older woman as she finished coming forward. There was indeed a bruise on her cheek, as Claudia had pointed out, though it appeared both cheeks were already colored with a bit of rouge, as she had just finished stating to her daughter. Also, her hair was mussed on that side of her face, with a few tiny beads of sweat forming near the temple. Other than that, however, not a stitch was out of place, not a hint of any discomfort or injury, as the madonna reached her feet with a straight back and uplifted chin.

"Where are your manners, my dear child. Introduce us."

"Mamma," Claudia automatically started before she realized she had reacted as a child, "This is Tacitus. A dottore. He has graciously agreed to see to you. Tacitus, this is mia mamma, Maria Auditore."

"A pleasure and delight," Maria curtsied, and Tacitus nearly returned the gesture. Awkwardly she changed it to a bow, felt the bruise forming on her backside push against her leggings, and struggled to hide both the curtsy and the grimace from the older woman's discerning, dark gray eyes.

"But of course, dottore, you are tired. I am sorry for the lateness of the hour. I did not wish for the girls to send for my daughter and cause such a ruckus, nor to inconvenience you so. And as you can see, I am not injured, other than a bruise." The tips of her fingers swept up to the side of her face before dropping back down to her side to burrow into a fold in her skirts and grip the fabric. "So your time would be better served, messer, finding your bed and seeing to your own rest."

"Mother…" Claudia's voice grew more stern.

"I am not hurt…"

"But you fainted…"

"I stumbled, nothing more…"

"Let the dottore decide that…"

Tacitus shifted, more from her own physical discomfort than from the heated dispute. She had heard such conversations before, reluctant patients, overly-concerned loved ones, the embarrassment, the anger. Inevitably it would come down to the same thing: the patient would be seen regardless of the protests—though a few noses may be bent out of joint. But as Maria had pointed out, they were all tired, and it was late, and the sooner Tacitus examined her patient, the sooner they could all get to their beds. She stepped forward, not quite between the two women but definitely far enough to enter the argument, and with only a single gesture towards the door she made the decision for everyone.

Maria stared at the hand that dared come between her and her daughter. She pursed her lips and straightened her shoulders even more—if that were possible—but she did give in. "Va bene," her voice was cool and calm as she capitulated, "Since you are here, and my daughter is so insistent, you might as well do what you came here to do, Messer… Tacitus, was it? At the very least, you can prove to my child that I my only injury is a bruise."

Tacitus bowed stiffly, admiring Maria's personal strength and her deep love for her daughter… but she was already forming suspicions in her mind. She had seen how tightly Maria gripped her skirts to hide the tremors in her hand, the lack of color on her cheeks she hid with a bit of that rouge she had mentioned, and could even now hear the heaviness of her breath after her short excursion of standing and arguing with Claudia. Tacitus kept herself from jumping to any conclusions, however, until she was finished with her examination. These few symptoms she already noted were far too vague and common to make for an accurate diagnosis.

But she did know where she would start.

Maria's room was on the first floor, just two doors down from the office. Once inside, with the door safely closed and with Claudia left in the hallway, Maria turned and faced her unwanted visitor. "I assure you, Dottore Tacitus, that I am only bruised. I have a bit of medical training myself, you see, so if there was something wrong with me, I would know about it."

Tacitus nodded stiffly and gestured to the chair before the hearth.

"You do not believe me, do you, that a mere woman could comprehend the medicinal arts," Maria protested, but took the perch as Tacitus was rummaging through her pack on the table next to it.

"There is no need for this," Maria insisted, crossing her arms over her chest in a protective manner. She crossed her ankles as well, kicking her feet out in front of her, and Tacitus caught sight of her ankles. She bent over and, after making a reassuring gesture to Maria that she was only going to look, scooped one hand beneath her calf and lifted to see the ankle clearly in the lamplight. It was swollen, puffy though not tender, and yet another symptom that added to her first suspicion.

The two women exchanged a look, both of them as penetrating as the other, Tacitus examining her patient and Maria examining her dottore. As Tacitus continued, Maria also began to take note of signs and actions and was forming her own suspicions.

"You do not talk, do you?" she questioned. "Can you? Are you physically able to speak, but choose not to?"

Tacitus gave her head a brief shake in the negative, pointing at her throat and hoping that answer would suffice. She moved to stand behind Maria, taking off her hat and pulling the side of her hood back, so she could press her ear closely to Maria's back and listen to her breath.

"I suppose that is why you are called 'Tacitus,' eh? Others gave you that name, of course, as being unable to speak, you could not give it to yourself. And it is very descriptive. Tacitus, coming from the root 'tacere,' meaning 'be silent.' Very appropriate, if you are truly as mute as you imply."

Tacitus allowed her to prattle on. With her ear pressed so tightly, she could clearly hear how badly Maria labored to breathe, no matter how much she tried to drown out the wheezing by speaking loudly. She pulled back long enough to move to the front, this time listening to Maria's heartbeat. Standing to argue with Claudia followed by a brief walk down a short hallway should not have been tiring, but Maria's heart was pounding, slightly irregularly, as if she had been running. Tacitus sighed as she leaned back, glancing around the room for another sign, and having it confirmed when she spied the tray of food, mostly untouched, from Maria's supper earlier that night.

Tacitus thought back very carefully over their one-sided conversation. Maria had said that she knew a bit about medicine, and that if there was anything wrong with her, she would know about it. She never denied that there was something wrong with her, nor knowing about it. And she said her only injury was a bruise, which was true—her 'injury' was a bruise. But there was something else, something that wasn't an injury, something that undoubtedly was the cause of her 'stumbling' that evening.

And they both knew it.

"Va bene," Maria began, taking Tacitus' hands in hers, "I am not well. Si, I know, I have known it for some time, but I also know that nothing can be done for it. I am old, Madonna Dottore, old and nearing my time. And my children, though they do love me, they have far too many other matters to focus on. They do not need to be distracted with something over which they have no control. Let them focus on what they can change, accomplish what they must, and allow nature to take its course in this one matter. This is a part of life, after all."

Maria's speech, though brief, did not distract Tacitus completely. Si, Ezio and Claudia were both busy with Assassin business, and there was nothing to be done to cure Maria, so perhaps there was no use in telling them and giving them more to worry about.

But Maria had called her… Madonna Dottore…?

"…how…?"

Maria blinked. She had suspected the dottore didn't speak to help keep her sex hidden; she didn't dream the woman truly could not speak, or rather could only speak very poorly. The voice was hard to understand, almost a hoarse wheeze caked over with misuse and pain. That Tacitus would speak to her was obviously a great compliment, that she didn't attempt to deny her gender or Maria's discernment of such was an even greater compliment. She decided to return the favor. "Small things. Your hands," she turned them over where they were still kept within her grasp, "Are very slender, not many men have such hands. And earlier this evening, when I curtsied to you, you started to curtsy back before you caught yourself. There's also the gentle, focused manner in which you listened to my heartbeat without paying any attention to my breasts; even at my age, a male dottore would at the very least be awkward around them. These, and a dozen other little clues," Maria's hand touched Tacitus' cheek through her veil, "A lifetime of experience, even, led me to the conclusion that you are a woman. Do you hide it merely so you can practice medicine?"

Tacitus blew a short breath of exasperation through her nose, puffing out the veil, and first nodded then shook her head.

"I do not understand," Maria confessed.

 _And I do not know how to tell you_ , Tacitus answered silently within her thoughts. But Maria was so gracious, so understanding already, and so softly intimidating that she gave in. She pulled her hood off her head, and dropped her veil from her face, and waited for Maria's reaction.

"Ah," Maria looked at her, a little sad and a little proud at the same time, "I see now, it's complicated."

Tacitus smiled at that, lopsided, the expression pulling at the scars on her right cheek and keeping that side impassive and blank. She gave her peculiar nod, showing Maria clearly how much the scar tissue impeded her movements, before disguising herself as a dottore once more.

"Tell me, do my children know?" When Tacitus shook her head, Maria's eyes twinkled, "Bene, then that will be one secret we will keep from them, no?"

Tacitus smiled again, though only her eyes showed it, and held up a pair of fingers.

Two.

They would keep two secrets from her children, Tacitus' true gender and Maria's illness. Maria nodded agreement, grabbing her hand and squeezing it tight. "Grazie mille."

Tacitus left Maria to her rest an hour or so later, knowing she had to return to the office and face the formidable Claudia but not knowing what she would say or, erm, gesture to lie about Maria's condition. She found her steps slowing, her hands fidgeting with the strap of her pack, until a familiar hearty laugh reached her ears. Marco. Rolling her eyes over her self-appointed-bodyguard's effusive manner, and secretly thankful he would be there to help buffer her from any awkward questions, she stepped up and knocked smartly on the office door.

Only then as her hand descended and her knuckles rapped, only then as it was too late to turn away or pause to reconsider, only then did she hear Ezio's agreeable chuckle. "That is mostly true, Claudia, only it was his horse that nearly ran into mine at the gates. We decided to finish our ride together, since we were both coming here. Who is it?" He spoke this last towards the door, towards Tacitus' knock, though it was Claudia who answered.

"Probably Tacitus," she announced, correctly, as she opened the wooden barrier almost as if she had been poised, anxiously awaiting the dottore's return and diagnosis. Tacitus subconsciously rubbed her hands down the front of her coat as she entered the room, thinking how it had been daunting enough, knowing she had to face Claudia and attempt to lie. But now… Ezio… how could she…

"Tacitus!" he proclaimed, far too cheerily given the circumstances. Out of the corner of her eye, she noted how Claudia shot him a dark look, though brief, and how quickly Ezio curbed his effusiveness down to a soberness more appropriate for the lateness of the hour. "When Claudia told me she had secured the services of the best dottore in all of Roma to tend to our mother, I could scarcely believe it. Especially after all the grief we have caused you and your friends. I, ah, I have heard the latest news about Augusto. Claudia told me as we waited for you. I am sorry there was nothing to be done. I had given you my word that my Assassini would do everything possible to keep him safe. And they failed. We," his left hand curled over his heart while his right seemingly swept in the entirety of the Brotherhood, "…failed, Augusto and you and Alfonso. I appreciate the fact that you were willing to come here and see my mother."

To hear, and see, how personally Ezio took responsibility for the situation, his plan, his assassini, his decisions, she could hardly find it in her to blame him. They all knew—she and Alfonso and si, even Augusto—what the Assassini did and whom they fought against and their motives for doing so. And she agreed with their mission; she would even have volunteered to go herself—if she only had a voice. No, she did not hold the Assassini to blame for Augusto's death. To convey her thoughts she held out her hand, offering her forearm in a very masculine gesture for Ezio to grasp, which he did so heartily.

"Grazie. So," he let go of her to walk back to the desk, half leaning and half sitting on its polished surface, "How is mamma? Was it only a bruise? The girls say she fainted."

Tacitus realized that he was prompting her, setting up the conversation so all she would have to do was nod or shake her head. She nodded, as everything he had said so far was true, and waited expectantly for the next statement.

"I see. Is she… I mean, physically… that is, did all she suffer was a bruise?"

She hesitated, but her quick mind made quick work of considering his words, and she nodded.

"Bene. Tacitus," he paused, taking a heavy breath and glancing to the side before he continued, "Tacitus, I have to ask, do you know what caused her fainting spell?"

And there it was: the point where she had to lie. Tacitus was at a loss on how to respond. She took a moment to gather her wits, but it seemed her silence for once spoke more plainly than any gesture or words could have conveyed.

"I understand." Ezio's voice was deep and husky, suffused with pain and fear and exhaustion and denial and resignation. He looked towards his sister, whose eyes were stubbornly refusing to shed their tears. "I… we know already, dottore, that our mother has been sick for a long time. We have watched her trying to hide her symptoms from us, disguise them as stumbles or distractions or even old age, and we have allowed her her little pretense. But I think matters have progressed far enough now, and we need to know the truth. We need to know the cause of her illness, and what—if anything—we can do for her. Do you know, Tacitus? Have you discovered what ails her?"

Her heart heavy, feeling horrible for betraying the matron already, and within the very hour of her promise, ignoring the fact that her children already suspected the truth, she nodded. She lifted her right hand and tapped it, three times, against her chest, before giving her head a small shake in the negative.

"Her heart," Marco translated, and had to clear his throat before he could finish, "It is wearing out. He is sorry, but there is nothing Tacitus can do to cure it."

Claudia must have forgotten the former mercenary was in the room, as she had given a slight start at the sound of his voice. She covered it fairly well, pretending to reach for a kerchief as she registered the news, and everyone else politely ignored the slip.

"She is dying, then?"

Though Ezio's words were phrased as a question, it sounded more like a statement. Tacitus nodded anyway, wishing there was more she could do. It might seem, to some people, that she was being cold and cruel and perhaps allowing their mother to die due to some sort of bitter sense of revenge—after all, they had allowed her friend, Augusto, to die. If only she could tell them that was not the case, that their mother truly was dying, that there truly was nothing medicine could do, that…

"I know you would do all you could for her, if there was anything to do," Ezio had to be a mind reader, they way he seemed to know her thoughts so clearly. "Again, grazie, for your fathomless, and undeserved, compassion. Tell me… tell us just one more thing, if you can. Do you know: how long does she have?"

Tacitus looked to Marco, giving them warning this time that he would be speaking on her behalf. She was thankful that they had worked out these signals between them, allowing her the ability to relay more complicated answers and instructions to her patients. She held up two, then three fingers of her left hand…

"Two or three…"

…brought both hands together, pinched her index fingers and thumbs, then drew them apart, as if stretching a piece of string between her hands.

"…months."

There was a small sound, like the cry of a dove, and Claudia turned away from them to step towards the doors leading to the back garden, her whole body trembling with the effort it took not to cry. Tacitus watched her back and shoulders, the look in her eyes tender and sympathetic. Ezio also stole a glance at his sister before continuing. "Dottore," he tried, but then seemed to change his mind. He took a step towards her, his hand clasping around her upper arm, and his face and voice lowering for her and her alone.

"Tacitus, I would ask, though I feel I do not have the right, I would ask if you might remain here, at the Rosa in Fiore, and tend mother for what time she has left."

Tacitus felt the tears burning in her eyes, her own pain compounding the empathy she felt for the Auditore family. Yet she forced herself to hold his gaze, showing him without words how strong her intentions were, and gave him one of her peculiar nods. The relief that briefly flooded his features was embarrassing, as she felt she had done nothing to give him such emotion. After all, there was nothing she could do for Maria that her children could not do, the elixirs she would prescribe could be easily made by a child, so she would not need to remain. Yet she knew both Claudia and Ezio were up to their elbows in work with the Brotherhood. So perhaps he was thankful simply because she had the time and energy to focus on the ailing matron that the son and daughter did not.

"One last thing," Ezio looked like he was chewing a sour grape, and perhaps it was a distasteful situation for him, begging favors from a man who should have every reason to hate him and blame him for a close friend's death, yet beg he did, "Prego, please, do not let mother find out that we know. She tries so hard to hide her illness from us. Allow her her pride, for her last days."

What awkwardness. Here she was, a woman disguised as a man, having promised to hide Maria's coming death from her children, children who already knew of her illness and were now asking her to promise not to tell Maria that they knew…

Tacitus felt her heart breaking, yet she nodded her acquiescence. It was a sad and rueful thought, how deeply this family cared for each other, the lengths they went through for each other, the pain they hid and the lies they told to spare each other—all unnecessarily of course, and all for love. Tacitus vowed in her heart to make Maria's remaining time as peaceful and pleasant as possible, not quite realizing how fast she was joining herself to the Auditore's, sharing in their pretenses and their love.


End file.
